Ode to the Avocado
by cuppacuppajoe
Summary: Rory in the aftermath of 7.21.
1. Prelude

**Prelude**

Today I started to grow my avocado tree.

Well, not a tree, really. More like a _little_ tree. A houseplant.

I've never taken care of a living thing before (maybe that was the problem), much less given life to one. Outside of school science projects that is, when I would religiously follow the instructions in the lab manual, mixing earth, water, air, chemicals in just the right amounts, taking copious notes and observations. Only to throw the lot away with nary a second thought after receiving the A. All very clinical, dry, obligatory.

I've never _wanted_ to grow anything before. It's not in the Gilmore genes. And though I'm not doing it for a grade, for an A, I'm worried about how successful it would turn out this time. Now I'm all thumbs (of the non-green variety); now it's all very emotional and non-scientific. I need it to grow. But wouldn't a plant—any living thing—thrive on sunny, happy feelings? I'll take care of it. I wonder if good intentions are enough.

I wash my avocado seed under the tap in my tiny yellow bathroom. I wash it well; I need to put some element of ritual into this. And my chest hurts as I do this, as if it were my insides, my heart, being rinsed in water. Starting fresh, starting new. But not really. The contents of my heart are old. But they've festered in numbness, denial, the desire to forget. Now, I bring them out to the open. And I cry as I wash my seed.

I suspend the seed (just an inch of it) over a glass of water. It was a frustrating exercise; it kept falling in. But finally it holds, with my impressive configuration of toothpicks. I place it in a warm nook in my kitchenette, took a picture of it (a callback to my school days). Day 1.

A houseplant? This is my little memorial to that house somewhere in Palo Alto, the one with an avocado tree in the backyard. An ode to what might have been, and to what still is. My love for Logan.


	2. Seed

**1. Seed**

According to it should be sprouting roots in two to six weeks. Any day now. I catch myself staring at it a lot, which is probably unhealthy (besides, a watched avocado seed doth not sprout roots, so the adage goes).

Glancing at it time and again over my bowl of Loops or box of peking duck, I started to feel for the little bald thing. So new, so green, so alone, suspended precariously over water with fragile toothpicks. Waiting for roots, so it could be planted on firmer ground and finally bloom, grow bigger. Grow stronger. There are days—many days—when I wish I could just let go, plunge in, or crawl back into the snug little hole of the fruit I was scooped out of. Anything but this sense of suspended animation, like I'm still waiting for my real-life-in-the-real-world to begin. I feel so green and _incomplete_.

I've developed an affinity with my avocado seed. Okay, now _that's_ unhealthy.

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"Hey, hon! Great to hear from you! Can you hear me over the gale?" Lorelai cackled in an extra-loud voice.

"It's been a month now, Mom. The Windy City cracks are getting pretty old," Rory replied dryly.

"No chuckling, even?"

"Nope. And the moniker doesn't even refer to the weather, but to the long-_windedness_ of its 19th century politicians and residents and…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lorelai cut off, missing and loving her daughter's predictable exposition of something so trivial as a city's nickname. "So apparently you and I would fit in perfectly over there."

"Speak for yourself. I prefer to think of my spiels as short and sweet. And Luke would hate it here. The urban jungle, the Sears Tower!"

"Ah, eight months away from me and you've lost your respect and longing for your poor old mother," Lorelai replied. "So, how are you? Have you settled down to a life of normalcy after your sojourn on the road with Obama? Hey, I'm sure there's a country ditty with that line. _On the road with Obama_…" Lorelai drawled in sing-song with a faux Southern accent.

Rory made a mental note to try not to call her mother again at the peak of her caffeine high, which is approximately at 10:22 in the a.m.. "Um, that's what I'm calling about, actually. I got a new job, and…"

Lorelai gasped at the other line. "No! You mean—what? Hugo let you go?"

"No, no…well, yes and no. I'm still with Clio, but now I'm an assistant editor of the Politics section. I'll be working alongside George Blake, our senior political correspondent." She can hardly keep the excitement—and relief—from her voice.

"Uh…okay, your voice sounds pleased, so I'm guessing that's a good thing? You'll still be writing, right?"

"Yes! And finally not just about Barack, I mean this gives me the leeway to write other stuff, my 'human interest' pieces, and for the other sections, too. I can finally write about…I don't know, like Angelina Jolie and how she has influenced adoption policies and trends all over the developing world. I mean, Laura flew to Beijing a few days ago to get herself a baby, imagine that." Laura was one of Clio's copy editors and a new friend of Rory's.

"Dang, I thought you were going to write about how she and Brad Pitt have broken up."

"Well I can write about that too, if it happens."

"Thanks, I got dibs on the scoop. But so, yay! You're going to be situated in one place, finally? Ta-tah, fanny pack! Buh-bye, disposable underwear!?"

"Yeah, although I've gotten so used to living from a suitcase, I don't know what to do with all this closet space. Not to mention a refrigerator. Hm, maybe I could put my books in there," Rory said thoughtfully.

"So you still are staying in Chicago? Lest Obama miss his favorite intrepid reporter."

"Yes, I still need to plant myself within reach of Barack, at least for a while. A number of Clio staff are here, we have an office uptown, if you could call a semi-permanent spot in Starbucks littered with laptops an office. And I'll be traveling every now and then to cover major events in the presidential campaign, but the rest of our people would be trailing Clinton and McCain on the ground."

"Aw, listen to assistant-editor-you. 'Our people'?" Lorelai teased.

"I mean our reporters, our citizen journalists, our interns. Hugo was really happy about how I rallied the troops and managed and edited their blogs especially in these last few months. And so he realized he didn't actually need me on the campaign. And so here I am."

"He seems really impressed with you," Lorelai observed. "And so I'm really impressed with him."

"You think so? Well that's probably because Log—" Rory cut herself short. She tried not to say his name too often; doing so always made her catch her breath, made her feel slightly disoriented.

"That's how it started, Rory," Lorelai followed gently. "But you've worked yourself to the bone for Hugo. I firmly believe that you are largely responsible for the fact that when I google 'Clio', your magazine now comes up before the Clio Awards, the Clio sashimi bar, and the city of Clio in Michigan."

"Spoken like a mother. Whatever will we do without your readership," Rory said wryly. "Just so you know, we're up for Best of the Web and Best Online News Service this year, though _Slate_ is probably going to get it again. My little pond is getting bigger."

"Ooh, take that, _New York Times_, you!"

"Uh, I wouldn't go so far as to compare us to the _Times_ just yet, Mom."

"Pft, who reads them anymore? I mean, for a moment there when you hinted about a new job, I was worried that I would have to re-train your grandparents to read the newspaper, when they've had such a smooth transition to the wonders of online media. Dad opens his laptop at breakfast and checks the Clio right after he peruses the latest uploads on You Tube."

Rory chuckled at the image. "And grandma? How is she?"

"Still shoving _The World Guide to Spas_ at me. And complaining how Clio sounds like the name of a cat. Or Mrs. Gruntwold's chihuahua, more specifically."

"Clio in Greek mythology is the muse of history," Rory explained for the nth time.

"Whatever, hon. You know we'll all read your articles even if they appeared in the _National Enquirer._ Especially if it's about Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney."

"Speaking of your male obsessions, how's Luke?"

"He's good. I think he's still a little emotionally hung-over by April's visit over the holidays, but good. We're good."

"Okaaay…so, any developments on the _mar_—uh, you know, what's up with you two?" The thought of marriage likewise made her feel disoriented.

"We both think we're okay where we're at, Rory. We don't need to get married to stay together or be happy, you know?"

This made her pause. "No, you don't need to get married," Rory said quietly.

Moments after they hung up, Rory finally stood up from her spot on the floor, and noisily ran the kitchen tap to replace the water for her avocado seed. She didn't tell her mother about her avocado project. She found the silence in her apartment, even with the gushing of water and the traffic right out her window, deafening as usual.

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One of the most dispiriting discoveries I've made about myself in my first job as a political reporter, is that I'm not cut out to be a political reporter. At least not the kind who could blend in seamlessly with a throng of hungry fellow reporters and shout out intelligent, witty questions to the candidate. (Although, ahem, I've certainly done my share of that.) Nor am I the kind who can survive for months on the road, shuttling or flying from Iowa to New Hampshire, South Dakota, Florida, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and California in pursuit of a man and his ideals and politics, sleep and food and three-star hotels be damned.

I was overwhelmed, exhausted, lonely. Looking back, it very nearly broke me.

Maybe it was the fact that it was my first job, launched just a week after my college graduation. (Damn, did I have to bring up my graduation again?) I arrived fresh-eyed at my first assignment, only to be jostled, ignored, and overshadowed by at least two dozen more seasoned reporters from all over the country's best newspapers. I've lost count of the number of times I was asked which paper I was interning for, what college I'm attending, and to please be a sweetheart and get some coffee and doughnuts.

Maybe it was the cushy life I had lived for the past 23 years. I blamed my small-town, homespun upbringing and Lorelai and my grandparents for my naivete, my belief I can be good at anything. When it took considerable ego-deflating criticism and editing and online feedback from (rude) readers before I can polish my pieces to suit the critical, edgy style of Clio (and beat my daily deadlines to boot). It reminded me of my days as an aspiring writer at the Yale Daily News, although I'm sure even Doyle would quiver in his V-neck at Hugo's expectations.

Maybe I was just lonely. I found it hard to insert myself in what seemed like fixed social niches in the arena of political reporting. I've never been much of a social butterfly. I would end up calling my mother, or my childhood best friend Lane, or my college (best?) friend Paris, tearful and tired, just longing for someone to reach out across the country to hug me and tell me things—that I—will get better. That I will eventually get used to the grind and pressure, and the inevitable isolation. Which they did all tell me of course, but the words rang hollow in my motel room.

Maybe it was Logan. Or more accurately, the absence of Logan.

I wrote him a random postcard once, from somewhere in Charleston, South Carolina. And I only finally mailed it when I ended up in Chicago, entirely on impulse (egged on mercilessly by my avocado plant). It read:

_Dear Logan,_

_How are you? I hope you're well._

_I've been on the road these past months, following Barack on the campaign trail. It's been crazy, as you can probably imagine. I'm in some hole-in-the-wall down here that serves unbelievably excellent coffee. _

_Anyway. I sincerely hope you're happy._

_Love, Rory._

I know, believe me I know, it's awful. I regretted sending it the second I heard it 'plop' down the mailbox. It sounds like something that I would write to some distant cousin, twice-removed (if I had such a cousin). Not something I would write to my once-boyfriend of two-and-a-half years who had proposed marriage to me. But given how things went down between us months ago, what can I say _now_, and how?

Perhaps I was hoping that he can read between the lines. Because what I really wanted to say was: 'Forget the proposal, forget my reasons, forget everything! I miss you so much that it hurts. I need to hear you laugh about Jake Sellers from the _Post_ who has the nasty habit of picking his nose with his pen right before he asks his questions. I need to tell you about Barack and hear your opinions and argue with you as you poke holes in my opinions. I need to hear you say that I still amaze you, everyday, and that you love me.'

I didn't leave a return address. Nor did I mention that I was working for his friend, Hugo. Did he even read the Clio? I didn't know. And I didn't know whether he ever got it. Which is just as well. I sent it to his home in Hartford, the only address of his that I knew. Shira probably had a good laugh over it.

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Don't get me wrong. I learned. I got me my "credentials" and "contacts".

I've become a virtual font of knowledge on Barack and the rest of them hopefuls, their backgrounds, politics, ideals, the very ins and outs of their brains. I did get a high and a kick from the intense pressure of covering the caucuses and primaries, even managing to forget the quaint Christmas and New Year's traditions I was missing from not being able to come home for the holidays. I like to think I've sharpened my skills in reporting and writing, enough to realize that what I considered the magnum opuses of my YDN days were amateur, raw. Enough to understand what Mitchum Huntzberger meant when he told me in college that I "ain't got it". At the end of the day, I was—and still am—no Christiane Amanpour.

So what kind of journalist am I? I'm still trying to figure that out.

So Barack Obama did not get the Democratic nomination. And he and I moved on.

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"Hey Rory, have you seen this?" Hugo dropped a newspaper on her desk, not quite disturbing Rory from her unblinking perusal of the article she was writing in her laptop. She was in their New York office that week, and was rushing to complete her piece so she can spend the weekend in Stars Hollow. Finally, after eight months.

"What?" she replied automatically, still not stopping her fingers from tapping.

"Helix had recently developed a platform for online news media that would greatly facilitate the reporting and updating of material from the 2008 presidential campaign and election," Hugo read from the paper. "Aaand…blah blah blah, I don't understand any of the technical jargon, but I think it has something to do with…"

"What does it have to do with us?" Rory interrupted, finally looking up at Hugo.

"I'm not really sure at this point, and I don't even know if we'd have any use for it, but Helix had generously offered to discuss with us this platform they're talking about here. Clio first, before any of the other, bigger online magazines. Ah, it's good to have a connection!" Hugo remarked, giving Rory a wry smile.

"Huh? What do you mean? I don't get it."

"Helix? Logan Huntzberger? He's part of that company. I meant it was good for Logan and I to have connected years ago while he was still with Huntzberger Publishing," Hugo's finger again tapped the newspaper on Rory's desk.

Rory continued to stare stupidly at Hugo. She couldn't do much else, she felt like the wind had been knocked out of her and any word or movement would cause her to fall apart.

"Uh, you two are okay, right?" He suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable. He wasn't one to pry into people's private affairs. He honestly had no idea what had become of Rory and Logan's relationship after that one night in New York when Logan introduced Rory to him as his girlfriend and the editor of the YDN.

_Okay? _

"Um, yes we're fine. Just…uh…friends now, but…yeah. I haven't heard from him in a while, though," Rory sputtered.

"Oh. Okay then. They're coming over here next week for a meeting. I'd like you and maybe George, Frank, and the other tech and design people to be there, too. You think you can fly over, maybe Thursday or Friday?"

"Uh, I'm not sure if I could be here, Hugo. I think I have some other thing scheduled for those days…" She made an effort to look absorbed, like she was trying her darnedest to remember her appointments. When she was actually trying her darnedest not to bolt to the nearest bathroom to catch her breath and calm her pounding chest.

"Can you let me know as soon as you figure out your schedule?"

"Sure I will. Thanks," Rory replied.

As Hugo walked away, he wondered whether Rory and Logan were indeed okay. She looked paler than usual.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_There_. There he was.

The newspaper photo was grainy. There were three men and one woman in the picture; Logan was at the right-most end of the row. It was a stock photo taken at some launch or event; the men were wearing jackets and the brown-haired girl was in a fairly flattering cocktail dress. (I hated her already.) The picture had nothing to do with the brief article, actually, except to introduce the CEO and other partners of Helix.

Logan's hair was longer than I ever remembered seeing, and appeared tousled as usual. He wore a dark jacket and a light-colored button-down, dark pants, no tie (as the photo was black-and-white, I had no idea what the actual colors were). His hands were in his pockets. He wasn't looking at the camera, but smiling at something (someone?) off to the side so that only his profile was showing. He really has a nice nose. He wasn't looking at me.

In answer to Hugo, when you haven't seen someone for months, for so long, it is easier to be okay. A bit longer, and who knows? Life goes on, and one might even forget how they once were, together. The other person morphs into an idea, a vague memory. He becomes less real.

That picture, printed in _The New York Times_ on 21 February 2008, so seemingly irrelevant to anything that is currently going on in my life, made him flesh-and-bone again to me. Logan was out there, breathing, walking, eating, laughing somewhere in Silicon Valley. I was clueless about where exactly, but he was in the same air space and land mass where I was. I felt incredulous.

Back at home in Chicago, I clipped the photograph, carefully cutting out the other people in the picture. Then I placed it inside my kitchen junk drawer. Under my avocado plant. I felt a little silly, embarassed, like a school girl. What I was doing really didn't make a lot of sense, but it made me feel...I don't know, light, buoyant. _Happy?_

Then I emailed Hugo before going to sleep: _I can be in New York on Thursday. I'll be there at the meeting._


	3. Sprouting

**2. Sprouting**

There's nothing so terrible in life as a botched farewell.

I'm a sucker for satisfying endings, the kind that leave you with a sigh and make you feel that the world is as it should be. (It's why I have this nasty habit of scuttling through the last few pages of books before deciding to buy them.) This particular chapter in my life--there's no sense of finality, no closure, no period. All the things left unsaid that could have been said had there been enough time and forewarning continued to gnaw at me. It was unceasing, even months and months later—my restlessness, my wondering about the "what ifs".

I braved the _Sixth Sense_ the other night on my 14-inch tv. And I realized that it's all these botched farewells in life that are at the heart of ghost stories. A person's soul not being able to move on and get its peace until a proper goodbye has been said and all that. Maybe the only time I would ever get to tell Logan anything was when I died. Then I can haunt him. Imagining myself with dead creepy eyes scared me witless though, so I wasn't able to sleep at all that night. Or it might have been the meeting this coming Thursday that kept me up (or that scared me witless).

I've envisioned half a dozen alternate endings to that fateful moment. What else is there to do on 6-hour trips, when Catherine from the_ Rocky Mountain News_ slumbers contentedly against one's shoulder?

Scenario 1: Run after him when he walks away. I might have said "No, this can't be the end! It can't be all or nothing! We can't _not_ try after being together for nearly three years!" Pro: He might have agreed with me. Con: He might not have agreed with me and tells me goodbye anyway. (The cheese factor? Could be a pro or a con.)

Scenario 2: At that juncture when he asks "What's the point? What's the point in trying?", I could have answered that the point is we would still be together, we'd still be talking. I can continue to love him and he me, and I would be saved from…I don't know. Whatever this is that I need saving from. Pro: He might have agreed with me. Con: He might not have agreed with me and tells me goodbye anyway.

Scenario 3: I could have said yes.

_Could I have said yes?_

Pro: We would have a life together, and I would have an avocado tree in my backyard, instead of an avocado plant in a glass in my kitchen. As for Cons…well, here's the thing: I couldn't think of any. Not because there weren't any. But because I had no idea what I would have missed if I had said yes. And on the day of my graduation from Yale, I couldn't endure not knowing what I would miss from my "wide open" future if I married Logan. I had to know.

Well, I know now what I didn't know then. And was all this—my life in the last nine months—worth the no, the goodbye? How could I put a number to this and measure it against an imagined life married to Logan? Why did there have to be a trade-off? Why did it have to be all or nothing?

When I said I couldn't marry him, I didn't know he was going to say goodbye. That would have been the greatest Con of all.

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I could also have touched him one last time.

My botched farewell had no embrace, no kiss. His fingers brushed against mine when I held out the ring for him to take. That's all there was.

Sometimes I caress my own fingers, press them against my face, see if I can relive that last millisecond of physical contact.

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I've trimmed the stem, with some regret. Why cut it off to three inches when it had grown nice and tall to eight inches? And it had already sprouted some leaves, too. But I'm not one to question the wisdom of the Avocado Growers; I trust they know more about the plant (_any_ plant) than I who have never before handled, grown, or eaten anything green. (Except guacamole, so there. And gummi worms.)

I suppose it has something to do with pruning. The idea is that by cutting away the unwanted or superfluous parts, the plant grows healthier and bears more fruit. I ponder the irony of that. To cut away overgrowth seems such a painful process. But to lay oneself bare, exposed, is necessary to grow. Maybe it makes it easier then for the sun and air and water to get to the heart of it, to circumvent the detours and excesses that ultimately sap its strength. What I perceive to be two steps back is actually a bigger step forward.

My mother had said, time and again, that it will get easier and less painful in time. I think it has been. But mostly because I've been busy growing lots of overgrowth, and I've taken solace in my hole under its shade. Maybe it's time to be pruned and be laid bare.

It's Thursday.

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"Hi, Rory. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hey Jeff. I'm here for a meeting." Jeff had sauntered over casually and perched himself on her temporary desk.

"Oh yeah, with the Helix people, right?"

"Yep, that one," Rory replied briefly, continuing to unpack her laptop and files from her portfolio.

"Okay. Um, it's good to see you here," he persisted.

Rory finally paused and looked at him. She tried to ignore his blonde hair, which reminded her too much of another bedhead. "Thanks, Jeff. How have you been?" she asked politely.

"I'm cool. I'll get to interview McCain in a few days. One of the first, post-primaries," he elaborated.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. Congratulations! Make sure you ask him about his highly-touted Office of Public Integrity and how he actually intends to whittle away at congressional pork barrel. And really, someone should pin him down already on his so-called moderate politics; his views on abortion and gay rights are murky at best," Rory rattled distractedly, tugging at her scarf and hanging it at the back of her chair. "When all's said and done, he's as right as right can be."

"Right. I mean, of course," Jeff nodded with a half-smile, bemused as usual at Rory's rapid-fire follow-through. "Hey, would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me sometime today? You could help me go over my points, talk strategy…" he trailed away, seeing Rory already shake her head imperceptibly. "Or if not today, then while you're here in the city, you know? It's been a while, Rory."

"I'm sorry, Jeff," Rory sighed. "I'm, uh…it's just not the best time for me. In fact, I'm anticipating that I might be especially preoccupied in the next couple of days here," she said with a nervous little cough.

"Because of the Helix thing?"

"Uh, no, why would you think that? I meant work, and deadlines, and I have a few articles to edit, and…"

"Oh. Well, just looking at your stuff here I thought you've somehow taken the Helix project into your own hands." Rory had piles of Helix folders and files on her desk.

"Ah, no, these are just to prepare for the meeting today. They sent their proposal some days ago so I did my homework. This is a potentially big thing you know, something that could give Clio an edge over the other online mags," she said with a hint of defensiveness.

"Sure. You could also have just said that you're not interested in seeing me, Rory."

Rory sighed. She felt so inept at these things. "I'm not interested in seeing anyone in that way, Jeff. It's not you; I'm, uh…interested in you. I mean, you're an interesting person, and I'm interested in us maybe being friends…if you're interested, that is," she said lamely.

"You have a strangely limited vocabulary for a writer, Rory," Jeff said with a half-smile. "I can deal with you thinking I'm interesting. For now." He squeezed Rory's forearm reassuringly. "Later, Rory," he said, walking away.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Laura murmured, scooting over to Rory's desk on her swivel chair. "Such a heartbreaker."

Rory groaned, plopping into her seat. "I feel bad. I don't ask for these things, but I feel bad. Wait. I did ask for this. This is my fault. Poor Jeff." She sneaked a glance at the watercooler, where he was chatting with Gina from web design.

"Must have been bad, huh."

"What?"

"The sex," Laura whispered conspiratorially.

"SSSSHHHHHH!" Rory loudly shushed, reddening to her roots.

Laura laughed. "God, Rory, you're so hilarious. Look. Jeff is great. He's smart and funny and clean, not like the dime-a-dozen douchebags here…"

"Hey, Hugo isn't a douchebag," Rory interrupted, as Laura rolled her eyeballs.

"…and he's not bad-looking, you know," Laura continued. "And you, you're not the type to ask for much. You strike me as a simple, home-town girl, you know? You two would make a solid couple."

"Why do I feel like I'm Anne of Green Gables and Jeff is my Gilbert?"

"So, it must be the sex. It could make or break the fragile beginnings of a solid relationship," Laura reasoned.

"You're just trying to wheedle more information from me," Rory accused. "It was so long ago I've practically forgotten."

"See? Bad, forgettable. I knew it. Poor Jeff," Laura clucked. "He does seem safe and a tad boring in that department." 

"It wasn't bad, okay? It was fine," Rory insisted. "He was…doing what he was supposed to be doing, from what I can recall." She opened her laptop, signaling to Laura that their conversation about her non-existent-sex-life-except-for-that-one-time was about to end. "I was probably the one who was boring. My head was in a totally different place." _Not to mention my heart,_ she added inwardly.

Laura laughed again. "You're too easy, Ror. You shouldn't give in too quickly to my evil designs. Someday, I'm going to get into that pretty little head of yours and unearth your deepest, darkest secrets, and forever silence the talk in the break room that the reason you don't go out with anyone is that you're one of those hot, closet lesbians that are populating Ivy League universities these days. Tyra Banks says."

Rory gave her a pointed glare.

"Ah, okay, okay. Here's something that's guaranteed to turn that into a smile." Laura fished a photograph out of her purse and handed it to Rory.

Rory stared at the picture of a round-and-pink-cheeked Chinese baby. It reminded her of Kwan and Steve, Lane's babies—or rather toddlers. "Oh Laura, I forgot about your trip to Beijing! He's so adorable! Wait—you're a mom!" Rory gasped, wheeling over to Laura to hug her.

"Yeah, the world as I know it has come to an end," Laura smiled wanly.

"So how are you? How is he?"

"She is Samantha, and she's great. Me, I'm exhausted. But insanely happy. I've entered a new chapter in my life, Rory." Laura looked at Rory, who had taken on a glazed look in her eyes. "You just wait your turn, missy."

"Oh, I'm still trying to muddle through _this_ chapter in my life, Laura," Rory said quietly. "It's just weird, you know. Sometimes I feel like everyone I'm close to is moving on, going someplace, being with someone, entering new chapters. Whereas I, I…"

"I am 39. You are 23. Last you told me, I'm old enough to be your mother. When I was your age, I was living it up Rory, the 'single life' and all that. Take advantage of that while you can."

"Hm," Rory murmured non-commitally, nodding.

"Hey, are you running a fever?" Laura asked her, turning one last time to look at Rory from her desk.

"I'm not sick. Oh God, do I look sick?"

"God forbid you miss out on work today. You're flushed, is all. I love that blue sweater on you; you look extra-special whenever you wear it, like you're gearing up for battle or something. No wonder Jeff is looking all puppy-eyed at you despite the bad sex. If we were both lesbians and I hadn't just adopted a baby from China, I'd date you," Laura rambled, goading Rory.

"And on that strange note, this conversation officially comes to a close," Rory muttered, staring at Logan's picture in the Helix portfolio on her desk.

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The post-college "single life" is everything that Carrie Bradshaw and Paris Gellar had warned me about. And it's not for me. That's the second most dispiriting discovery I've made about myself, next to my not being cut out to be a Christiane Amanpour. I can't date. Period. Or maybe I can, if only I can find someone date-worthy who wouldn't require the tedious small talk or perfunctory foreplay. Or maybe I'm what my mother and Logan had said about me. I'm strictly a girlfriend kind of girl (which sounds more respectable, if old-fashioned, than "serial monogamist").

Jeff was assigned to Clinton's camp, and he and I spent a lot of time together in the rush and scramble just before the Iowa caucus. Barack lost it to Clinton by such a narrow margin, he and I ended up drinking and engaging in a spirited debate in the aftermath. The debate quickly turned into a semi-drunken one, the friendly banter took a different turn, and we found ourselves groping at each other awkwardly in my hotel room. But that was pretty much the extent of my participation. In the dark, I remember looking down at his blonde head and feeling a wave of sadness overwhelm me. When I cried out at the end, he may have thought it was from pleasure, not from heartache.

That's not quite the tale I wanted to regale Laura with.

It was the day after that that I thought about avocado trees, and growing my own avocado plant.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was 2:18. Rory was 12 minutes early for the meeting. It took a full four minutes for her to decide where to sit. Should she face the windows? The Manhattan skyline might serve a welcome distraction at some point in the meeting. And her back would be to the door, saving her from actually having to see Logan before she had steeled herself and taken a breath. But then it might be a good idea, a good signal for her to face him directly. She would stand as he and the other people from Helix entered the room, give him a big smile and even shake hands forthrightly. "Hello, Logan. It's great to see you," she would say. And she would mean it.

She decided to sit with her back to the door.

Then she spent another five minutes shuffling her folders in front of her, arranging them according to some preconceived order of discussion. Two minutes to bring in a carafe of water to the meeting room, and moving it from a side table to the middle of the conference table. One minute to make sure that the whiteboard marker had ink.

Then people started to come in. Not in trickles, but a whole bunch of them all at once: Hugo, Frank, the tech people, and two strangers—a man and a woman—who Rory assumed to be from Helix. The room was suddenly crowded; everyone was standing up and introducing themselves to each other. There was laughter, casual banter, a constant buzz. "Hi, I'm Rory, I write for the Politics section," she said to the man and woman (she never did get their names), and a couple of other people who she already knew from Clio. Robotic, her smile on auto-pilot, she kept her peripheral eye locked to the open doorway.

Then Hugo walked to the open door, and shut it. "So I guess we're all here? Then let's get this show on the road—or should I say, online," he cracked, slightly embarassed by his own joke.

Rory took her seat, and felt a dull ache begin at the pit of her stomach, moving up to her chest, then throat.

_He wasn't coming._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reprieve.

I half-ran to the bathroom at the conclusion of the one-and-a-half hour meeting. It was absolute torture, though for the life of me I couldn't actually recall any of it. I remember asking a question, perhaps two, and even participating in the online demonstration of the program. Thank God my cerebellum seemed to be functioning, or I would have keeled over from holding my breath.

I threw my pencil across the bathroom, and it landed with a dissatisfying 'plink' on the tiled floor. So I removed my left shoe and flung it hard against the wall. Did the same with my right shoe. For good measure, I picked up my pencil and broke it in half. _Damn it, damn, damn, damn him!_ Spent, I sat on the floor against the cold toilet and rested my head on my knees. I've never felt more frustrated, disappointed. It tasted bitter, and I realized I was crying hard.

_Why didn't he come?_ There was only one explanation that came to me. He didn't want to see me. Because if he wanted to, he would be here. He would have found out from Hugo that I worked for Clio, if he hadn't already known. And I never thought of Logan as someone who would avoid any confrontation, even a possibly uncomfortable one. He _really_ must not have wanted to see me. And I never thought of Logan as passive-aggressive either (that's my strategy, thank you). But I get the message, the spirit behind his not showing up. He's upset, if not angry. Angry? For a moment, I felt renewed anger but it withered immediately. I had nothing on me I could still throw. And I still wanted so badly to see him.

Maybe it wasn't about not wanting to see me, or being upset or angry. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe he had to do his laundry or something. I laughed a little at the image of Logan doing his laundry, but as I was still crying, it came out like a hiccup. I used to help him with his laundry, so keen I was in sorting and folding and organizing his whites and coloreds just so. _Oh, damn it._

Forget about haunting Logan ala-_Sixth Sense_ in order to say my piece. Our farewell will never be un-botched. It's me who will forever be haunted.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory could no longer ignore the incessant rumbles of her stomach. She was too psyched up to eat lunch, too upset to eat dinner, and crying had dehydrated her considerably. It was time to leave the office and act human.

She appreciated the quiet and darkness in the office; her desk lamp cast shadows that strangely gave her comfort as she went about her work. She wrote her article, edited and proofed Janet's and Ewan's, and wrote emails to her mother and Lane. The emails were brief. She didn't tell them about Logan. After all, since he didn't reappear in her life, things were at status quo. And that requisite period for writing about Logan and the status quo had long passed several months ago.

As she shrugged into her coat, she heard voices down the hall, coming from the elevators. It made her pause, her arm still in mid-air. She would recognize that voice, that laugh, anywhere.

Should she flee? Hide? Wasn't he doing his laundry?

"…and that's exactly what I said! That guy makes me crazy. Ah, so here we are…" Hugo opened the door, turned on a light.

Rory blinked and squinted. She felt like a child who was caught hiding in the broom closet.

"Rory? What are you doing here? It's past 9!"

"I uh…I had things to finish up here before I fly back to Chicago tomorrow."

"Aw, you should be out enjoying the city! Logan and I just came from…" Hugo's voice trailed away as he quickly assessed the situation. He glanced at Rory, who proceeded to pick up her portfolio and began walking slowly towards them, and then at Logan, who simply looked stunned.

"Okay, let me just go and get my laptop from my office," Hugo said, walking away.

Rory stopped about three paces from where Logan stood. She really didn't know what would happen to her nor to him if she drew any closer. He looked a bit thinner, but still easy in his skin. Slightly tanned, slightly scruffier hair and jaw. California-nized Logan. But Logan still.

He cleared his throat, finally spoke. "Hey, Rory."

She cut to the chase. "You didn't come to the meeting."

"No, I didn't."

Nothing more. He didn't owe her any explanations after all. And she didn't feel right about asking him why. So she said the next thing that came to mind.

"I'm hungry."

He smiled, a little. "I bet. It's late."

"Will you eat with me?"

He opened his mouth, but only a breath came out. He looked down at his loafers, engaged in an internal debate.

"I'm sorry, Rory. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh…you…you've eaten."

"Um, yes. With Hugo."

"Okay. I should go then."

She walked past him, and as she did, he murmured, "Take care of yourself, Rory."

As she stepped into the elevator, she thought about their shoulders nearly touching. Or perhaps it was just the fibers from their coats, not really _them_ touching, no. An exchange of 11 sentences, about missing a meeting and grabbing a meal. Not at all what she imagined their first, and perhaps last, encounter to be like.


	4. Pruning

**3. Pruning**

The dinner crowd had thinned considerably in the Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien, home to arguably the best burgers in New York City. Wallow-worthy burgers, I thought, ordering two with the works, plus two bags of fries, and two brownie squares to boot. I was one of the last occupants of the vinyl-covered booths, the autographs of J. Lo and Whitney Houston emblazoned on the wall the only benevolent witnesses to my misery. In the absence of Lorelai, they would do as soul sisters.

Logan looked beautiful, as usual. Not seeing him for nearly a year made him all the more heartstopping, compelling, ten times over. Not that I actually looked_ at_ him or his face (his ears, his collar, were riveting enough).

He also seemed so far away. We stood two feet from each other, but I felt nearer to him had he been in Palo Alto and I in Massachussetts. I guess it was too much to expect that he give me a hug. No arm jostle or rub on the shoulder, or even just a pat on the back accompanied by his wide and brilliant smile, like he probably gave Hugo. Silly. I'm not even in Hugo's league apparently.

Well what was I expecting anyway? This was a guy whose marriage proposal I rejected 10 months ago. I don't know; whatever I was expecting wasn't as awful as how things actually happened. With all our history, I thought we would just get into the spontaneous conversation that used to come so naturally to us. I just wanted to talk, a chance to tell him what my life had been like since graduation. A chance to tell him I missed him in my life.

But he didn't want that chance to listen or say anything to me; he didn't need it like I do. When he said "take care of yourself", he might as well have said, "go kick yourself in the head for being so damned naïve and not moving on, Rory". So much for our history.

I blew my nose with a sense of finality, took out my pen, and grabbed a couple more paper napkins. I need to start a list. There would be so much, of course, that one needed to be efficient.

Yale t-shirt (gray)

Yale t-shirt (blue- mine and his)

Yale sweats (gray and blue)

Yale coffee mugs

ALL Yale paraphernalia

hunter green coat

digital camera (the Canon one)

the Rocket

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Adam Sandler DVDs

photo album 11-C (Europe Christmas 2006)

diamond tennis bracelet

hoop earrings

French press

Birkin bag

pink coat

pink top with lace trim

Sparks CDs

The Office DVDs

photo albums 1-4 L (2005-2007) – make sure to delete digital copies (same for 11-C above)

red teddy

Sponge Bob pjs

ALL underwear/lingerie/pjs bought or worn post-February 2005

CDs and books?!???

I was running out of space in my napkin. So I ended up wadding it up in a ball and stuffing it in my still-full bag of fries. "All my clothes, books, CDs, DVDs, pictures, appliances, _things_ circa February 2005 to May 2007" should be easy enough to remember. They wouldn't fit in one box, of course. And I would have to renovate and overhaul my entire wardrobe. Practically my entire life in the past three years. See, this is why I never had a Logan box in the first place. But really, now, maybe it is time.

I finally left the Burger Joint. Despite feeling all hollow and empty, I could only eat half a burger and half a bag of the fries. No amount of junk in the world could fill this up. I felt sorely disappointed in the waning of my wallowing and breaking-up skills.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking down the street, I wandered numbly among the busy throng of night revelers, couples engaged in varying degrees of public displays of affection, and Japanese tourists. I preoccuppied myself in imagining that my avocado plant, back in my kitchen in Chicago, was dying.

Then, unexpectedly, it started to snow.

People stopped to look up and around at the tiny flecks of white falling like rain. The Japanese tourists gasped in excitement and decided it was a good time for pictures. Children stuck out their tongues. I stopped walking and allowed the snow to melt into my coat, wet my eyelashes.

Snow made me think of my mother. She would have seen (smelled) it coming. Even in March. And in my current quite-unsuccessful state of wallowing over Logan, thinking of Lorelai led me to remember her words after that fateful graduation day. We were lugging the last of my boxes from Paris's apartment, I think. Or it might have been in the car. She told me: _Someday you'll meet someone, and you'll just know it's right. You won't want to hesitate. You'll just know. _

You won't hesitate. You will know.

I began to shiver. I've known all this time. I started running to the corner, my arm raised to hail a cab. One among a dozen others wanting to get out of the snow.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hugo!" she practically shouted in her phone.

"Who the—" the voice slurred.

"Rory! It's Rory. I'm so sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Well, yeah. It's…uh…close to midnight," Hugo mumbled, squinting at his bedside clock. "Is everything okay?" Even barely awake, he could hear that she was frantic. Come to think of it, she was acting strangely the entire day.

"Well, I'm in a cab, and it's snowing, but I don't know where to go, and I was just walking from the Burger Joint, and I had burgers and fries for dinner," she babbled breathlessly.

"Okaaay," Hugo replied, sitting up in his bed and reaching for his other phone, ready to call 911. "Why don't you just breathe, Rory. Nice and easy," he said soothingly.

"I don't know where to go," Rory continued. "And Sanjaya here is starting to get annoyed," she whispered, sneaking a look at her driver's bored eyes reflected on the rearview mirror.

"You mean you don't have a place to stay. It's okay, I can put you up for the night. I live on East 9th street. 12F."

"Not you, Hugo," Rory replied shortly. "Logan."

"Huh?"

"Um, do you know where Logan is staying," she clarified. "I, uh, don't know where to go," she said again, feeling herself blush in the dark of the cab.

"Oh. Yeah. He's staying at the Sofitel. 44th between 5th and 6th," he replied.

Rory exhaled audibly at the other end of the line. As she didn't hang up, there was an interim of awkward silence between the two.

"Do you…do you think he'll be there?" she finally ventured to ask. _Do you think he'd react favorably to my barging into his hotel room?_ she added inwardly.

"Well he mentioned staying the weekend in the area. I think he's meaning to visit his sister in a few days; she had just given birth or something. In Connecticut."

"Honor," she responded automatically. From Huntzberger shanghais to bridesmaids, she associated Honor with a lot of complicated memories and feelings.

"Right. Rory—I hope I'm not being way out of line for saying this, but you two should just put each other out of your respective miseries," he hedged.

"Who, Honor?" she replied, confused, as she mouthed "Sofitel at 44th" to her cab driver.

"Logan," he replied, feeling a bit exasperated. "He just totally zoned out after we left our office, begged off from the after-dinner drinks we were supposed to have and took a cab back to his hotel. You know Logan doesn't usually say no to after-dinner drinks. Or after-dinner _anything_, for that matter."

"Maybe they don't do after-dinners in California. They do weekends at the beach, drinking healthy organic shakes," she quipped, staring unseeingly out her window.

"Riiight. And speaking of healthy, you've seemed more than a little worn out lately, Rory. I've been thinking you should take a break."

"No—no! Please, I'm okay. Whatever…stuff is going on with me, you know I don't let that interfere with my work."

"No. You've been doing an amazing job, Rory."

"Thanks, Hugo," she simply said.

"Now talk to Logan."

"Thanks again," she said, hanging up. She had a feeling she would be less than amazing on that front.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I took deep breaths outside his door. Oh, what I wouldn't do to have a paper bag to blow into right now. He was probably waiting for me to knock at the other side, waiting while I paced in front of the elevators of this French-style hotel (did the place have to have that damned romantic air?), waiting since the woman at the front desk had informed him over the phone in her thick, slightly disapproving accent that a "Mademoiselle Rory Gilmore" is here to see him (at 12:43 in the morning!), waiting while I spent two minutes in the bathroom staring at my wild-eyed, flushed-face self.

As for me, I've waited the last nine months to tell him that I love him and want him to be part of my life again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She raised her fist to knock on his door, but it opened before she had the chance. Logan at the threshold, hair mussed up like he had been asleep. But he was still wearing the same slacks and button-down shirt—now rumpled—from earlier in the evening.

"Hi again," she said, a little too brightly.

"Rory," he nodded to her at the doorway. His voice sounded strained, like he was out of practice saying her name. He looked at her openly, matter-of-factly, until she reddened and began to feel warm. "You came here to see me. Why?"

_Did he really want us to talk out here in the corridor?_

"Because…I, uh…well, because!" She shrugged her shoulders. "Because you're Logan, and I'm Rory, and doesn't it feel utterly _not_ normal to be in the same place after nine months and not talk to each other? Not that seeing you at 1 in the morning is normal…" her voice trailed off uncertainly. "I'm sorry. Were you asleep?"

"You want us to be…_normal_?" Logan said, a disbelieving smirk appearing on his face.

"Logan," Rory sighed, looking down. The things she wanted to say just disintegrated in the light of his smirk. She tried again. "It's snowing, you know."

"Oh, you want us to be _that_ normal. Talking-about-the-weather normal."

"Okay. Look. Why are you making this so hard for me? As if you were so obtuse! I obviously want to talk to you. I asked you to have dinner with me, but you refused, and now I'm here at your hotel at this ungodly hour that I swear the concierge thought I was a lady-of-the-evening—or whatever it is the French call those women—and that I was wearing fishnet stockings under my pants!" Rory snapped, finally annoyed.

"_Obtuse_?" Logan repeated with a small laugh. "Oh, and I think they go by 'whore' pretty much anywhere in the world. And are you, in fact, wearing fishnet stockings under your pants?"

Rory blew out air from her mouth. "Can you just let me in, Logan?" _Literally and figuratively_, she thought.

For a second he looked like he was going to refuse her yet again, but then he simply opened the door wider and stood aside to let her through. The room wasn't large, but had a breathtaking view of the city. There were two chairs and a small table, a desk, and a queen-sized bed. Rory's heart started pounding hard and fast as she stood at the foot of the bed. It wasn't so much the fact that she, Logan, and a bed were in a room together, but what was on the bed, that made her pause. Laid out in piles on the bed were his clothes; his toiletries strewn casually. His carry-on luggage was open on the floor. He was packing.

"You're leaving."

"Yes. I booked a red-eye back to San Francisco. I have to go in a couple of hours."

She silently surveyed his things on the bed. She began touching them lightly; she couldn't help herself. She grazed her fingers against the faded dragon print on his favorite brown t-shirt, ran them along the fraying hem of his blue plaid cotton boxers. If she put the t-shirt up to her face, she was sure she would smell his scent, the aftershave that he apparently still used. His socks she recognized; a couple seemed new. His tootbrush was different, green. He no longer had any of his hair products from before. All these details were such poignant mementos of the everyday life they used to share. She started tearing up quietly, as she brushed off some imaginary piece of lint from his folded grey sweater.

"Rory," Logan murmured from behind her. "Stop. Please."

She folded her arms obediently in front of her chest, and turned to face Logan, who was standing stiffly several feet from her. He ran his hand through his hair, looked away, visibly affected by the sight of Rory touching his things. She was too familiar; it was as if she were touching him.

"Why are you running away?" She swiped at her eyes impatiently, tossed the question at him.

"Excuse me?" Logan retorted, caught off-guard. "Running away?"

"Avoiding me. You didn't come to the meeting with Clio, which you obviously had a hand in orchestrating in the first place. You refuse to eat dinner with me. And now, after seeing me by accident, you're flying back to California. I know you were planning to stay a while, visit Honor. But no, you'd rather burn bridges than see your sister."

"Hey, hang on," Logan replied, frowning. "Why is this about me all of a sudden? I didn't ask to see you or talk to you, Rory, and I don't need to explain my actions to you. I don't owe you anything." He saw her face flinch as he said this.

"No, you don't have to explain anything," she said, moving farther from him, to the other side of the bed. "You just leave. At least you said goodbye the last time. Not that that wasn't an unpleasant surprise either."

"What do you want me to say? What do you expect from me? We don't have a relationship. You made that clear. That's what _I_ remember from the last time."

"What?" she asked, incredulous. "I wanted to be with you; I loved you! I wanted to keep trying. I was willing to do the long-distance thing, make the sacrifice. I knew we would be geographically apart, but I never wanted you out of my life, Logan." _There. She said it._

But Logan shook his head, unaffected by her impassioned diatribe. "Oh, please. That sounds all nice and sweet and something you'd see in those tv shows you're so fond of mocking. I asked you to marry me, Rory. I asked you to marry me." His voice shook, even as he held his composure. "I told you that—I said I wanted to be with you forever. And you said no. No to being with me."

"No to _marrying_ you."

"No to being with me," he repeated. "You made a choice. It was between your 'wide open future', or a life with me in Palo Alto. You chose to be apart from me, Rory. To have a life away from me." Unknowingly, he had moved closer to her, as if to convince her of the veracity of his words.

Rory vaguely remembered what Paris had said when they talked about their futures with Doyle and Logan. _Sometimes choosing to be apart, is choosing to be apart._ Was Paris right after all? She began to doubt herself. Did she not want to be with him?

"Logan, that's unfair. That's so unfair," she reasoned in turn. "You _made_ me choose. And now you're saying it's my fault."

Logan looked out at the skyline momentarily, cleared his throat. "Thing is, I didn't think I was making you choose between anything. I actually thought I was giving you everything." He looked down at his feet, which were bare. "Which was probably naïve of me. It was a nice thought, you and I starting from scratch, together. What I saw as an opening, a world of opportunities for both of us, you saw as limiting, a closing-off of your future. I don't regret what I did, and I don't blame you for what you did. We just saw our future and our relationship differently."

Rory had sat down on one of the upholstered chairs, letting Logan's words wash over her. Her desire to have him back in her life seemed trivial now. Selfish, even. How could she never have thought of this from his perspective? She must have hurt him terribly. She stared at the carpet as he stared out the window, both quiet, as if mourning the passing of a loved one.

Then Logan ran his hand through his hair, as if to shake off the mood. "So. What's next on the agenda? You have a list on you?" He didn't like dramatic encounters. That's why he left the way he did on her graduation day.

"I suppose…" Rory began, looking up at his profile propped against the glass. "Would it make a difference if I said I still love you."

He seemed to mull over that for a moment, then murmured. "A difference where? In my life now? What difference does it make in yours? God, Rory, just stop it." He suddenly grew anxious for her to leave already, so he started to walk towards the door. "Look, I have to finish up packing here and go. I still don't understand what you wanted to achieve by seeing me. But whatever, I hope you got it."

Rory felt an emotion akin to panic rise frantically in her chest. She stood up from her chair but wouldn't move, couldn't. _Is this it? Again?_

"No. Logan, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say anymore, okay? I'm confused and…God, I'm so tired!" She pressed her palms to her forehead, trying to stave off what seemed to be inevitable. "I'm tired from today, and my life…just being without you…and I'm not making any sense," she rattled on. _Damned if she was going to let him go just like that._ "Just that you…You don't get to say goodbye again this time, okay? You said goodbye last year, Logan, not I. I didn't say goodbye."

_Damn. Why wouldn't she just leave?_ "So do it." He walked until he was directly in front of her. "You say it this time. Say goodbye, Rory."

"Is that what you want? Well I'm sorry because…I…I can't," she whispered unhappily. She brushed at her eyes with her fingers, willed herself to stop crying. She couldn't keep tears from falling though, so she continued to stare at the third button on his shirt, her vision blurring, her hand constantly swiping at her eyes.

They were at an impasse.

Logan stepped forward then hesitated, as if testing to see whether the floor beneath his feet was solid, would not give way. He moved closer to Rory and cupped her cheek in his left hand. She closed her eyes and exhaled sharply at his touch, and tentatively leaned her face into his palm.

"Then let's do it this way," Logan murmured, bending to touch his lips ever so carefully to hers. Rory immediately put one hand to his cheek, the other she tangled in the hair at his nape, as if to keep his mouth against hers. If she didn't cling to him, she felt like she would blow into a million pieces.

So what began as a gentle kiss quickly turned rough and urgent, as if they had precious little time. Their mouths slanted against each other's, their tongues swept and collided. Logan was thorough. He sucked and flicked until she whimpered. Until her hands began to move restlessly along the sides of his torso, her fingers seeking contact with flesh in between his buttons. He grunted, prying her hands from his chest. She knotted her fist against his shirt in frustration, until she understood that he was only helping her out of her heavy coat. Then arms unencumbered, Rory linked them behind his back, pressing herself flush against him.

Their kiss went on, as Logan began walking forward, half carrying Rory. She fell back on the bed as the back of her knees bumped it. She hit her head on something hard—a wayward clothes hanger—in the fall. They laughed a little at her "ow!", and Logan kissed her head as he impatiently pushed aside his things to the floor. She clumsily opened the buttons of his shirt, and reached her head up to nuzzle, kiss, lick at his chest as he tried to maneouver her breasts out of her bra. He cupped them in his hands, almost reverently, then rolled one nipple around with his tongue, the other with his fingers. Rory's head fell back, her mouth slack; she was starting to spiral. She held his head against her breasts as she struggled to spread her trouser-clad legs beneath his. Logan obligingly rubbed his hardness against the juncture of her thighs, and Rory began to pant and moan. She grabbed one of his hands, pushed it down to her crotch. He understood, grappling with her belt, buttons, zipper as he continued to suck on her right breast. The sound of fabric tearing made them both freeze momentarily, but then Rory felt Logan's fingers slide into her wetness, and all thought was lost.

It was her turn to fumble with his zipper, her hand pushing down his boxers and rubbing against him in the process. It was his turn to moan and catch his breath against her neck. After a moment he took both her hands and placed them above her head. She readily lifted her hips to receive him. He entered her slowly in the beginning, both savoring and prolonging what they had mutually missed. Then he started driving into her hard and fast. They thrust, squeezed, moved in cadence. Then, climax.

It probably took all of 7 minutes. As Rory returned to her regular senses, she licked her lips tentatively. They felt tender, and she tasted blood. She wondered whether it was hers or Logan's. She dropped her gaze to Logan's head lying on her chest, and saw that he was doing the same. His finger dabbed at his mouth, his eyes quizzical. She stirred, and Logan lifted himself on his elbow. He looked at her dark tangled hair, her sweater pushed up high on her chest, her trousers bunched to her ankles. Her eyes were bluer than he ever remembered seeing that day. She looked beautiful.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, a bit embarrassed. "Did I hurt you?"

_Hurt me?_ she wondered. _This made me whole._

"Not any more than I hurt you," she whispered back. There were red welts on his face and torso.

Logan smiled down at her. Inspired by this sign, Rory began to speak. "Logan, I—"

"Shh, Ace." He dropped a brief kiss on her mouth. "No need to talk anymore, okay?"

He began to divest her of her clothing, and she did the same to him, raising their arms submissively to the other, like children. Tensions spent, they crawled naked under the covers of the trademark, goosedown Sofitel bed, and fell into an exhausted sleep in each other's arms. Rory's last conscious thought was of Logan calling her _Ace._


	5. It Won't Grow Overnight

**4. It Won't Grow Overnight**

I was dreaming.

I dreamt that I was on a stage, and I was dancing in the annual dance of the daffodils. Turning, linking arms with other girls, stretching our hands to the sky. Donned in our avant-garde costumes, smiling at the bespectacled little girl next to me wearing the same brown, rough-hewn, pot-bellied garment as I. And woah, was I tall. We all dropped and rolled around on the floor of the stage. Then we lay very still, like vegetables. There was giggling, an air of excitement. Camera lights flashed from the audience. Then Little Miss Four-Eyes slowly stood up, transformed—not into a yellow daffodil—but in wild, abundant, green-leaf-haired glory. I looked up and saw that all the other girls had lushed into green.

So I stood up too, from my spot on the stage floor. My arms stretched up, and I felt…nothing. Just my own hair and the air above me. A few branches stuck out awkwardly from my arms and neck. But no leaves. None of the long, smooth, symmetrical, diamond-shaped leaves of the avocado.

I remained seed-like, brown.

There was embarrassed silence, but then my mother stood up from the audience shouting, "Yay, Rory! You can still do anything, be anything, Rory!" Other townspeople started to follow her lead, chanted along with her.

My eyes were glued, however, to the man sitting left off-center, his elbows on his knees. Logan. He was watching intently, and seemed to be waiting.

I started jumping up and down, contorting my body this way and that, willing myself to grow. _Grow, damn it!_ Until Kirk (or was it Miss Patty? It looked like Kirk-Patty) gently guided me off the stage, clucking soothingly about a "wardrobe malfunction" that they would fix in a jiffy. I struggled against him/her, flailed my arms. I called out to Logan, who had stood to leave the studio. "But I don't need to be fixed. I love avocadoes, I swear! I love you! I love guacamole!!!"

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He drank her in while she slept. Her mouth slightly open, she breathed unevenly, her eyes fluttering under her lids. She was dreaming. There were shadows under her eyes, which he brushed—as if to erase—with the pad of his thumb. He knew he was hard on her that night. And if her week prior to this meeting with Helix was anything like his, then she must not have had a decent night's sleep or a moment's ease from thoughts of their possible meeting either. In the end, he decided not to go. A cop-out, but he thought it best to save himself from needless grief.

But here they were anyway.

He settled his face against the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. Faintly soapy, clean, almost odorless. She never wore perfume, still didn't apparently. His left leg was lodged between hers, her buttocks against his groin, his arm snaked under her breasts, her fingers encased his. If he could live and die in this hotel room on the 19th floor, buried under the covers in this incredibly comfortable bed, he would be happy. As long as he was holding Rory this way.

Life will go on, of course. His and hers. And grief would come soon enough, again. But for the moment, he simply saturated himself with the barely discernible scent of skin hidden under her hair.

As he sank back into sleep, he felt Rory twitch against him and moan softly, mumbling almost inaudibly. _Guacamole,_ he thought he heard her mutter. Funny, Logan thought. She must be hungry. Which is typical, even if the dreamt-of food item was very atypical. He made a mental note to call room service when they woke up.

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She turned around in a loose circle of arms, her bare breasts coming in contact with warm skin. So familiar-yet-unfamiliar was the sensation, that Rory snapped to wakefulness. Her eyes adjusted to the gray light that filtered through the curtain, and she realized that she was, in fact, in a hotel room, in a bed, with Logan Huntzberger. Her nose was an inch away from the rising and falling of his chest.

The whole tableau—twisted blankets, intertwined limbs, dawn breaking—had an air of unreality, a dream-like quality to it. What she imagined waking up after a secret tryst with a lover would be like (not that they were lovers, or that they were tryst-ing, she revised). That he was even there surprised her, then overwhelmed her. Part of her wished he would remain asleep so they can be still and preserve the moment just like that. But being so near him, she was compelled to touch him, and that would awaken him she knew.

She began by sinking her face in the space between his neck and shoulder. Inhaling, kissing tentatively, then sucking lightly. Then she wrapped him in her arms and legs, ran her fingers through his hair in the same way she saw him do so many times that night. Waves of raw pleasure, sheer joy, coursed through her at simply being able to hold him. She couldn't stop kissing, tonguing, his neck, shoulder, chest.

Logan groaned to wakefulness, shifting to lie on his back to give her better access. Rory straddled him and kissed him full on the mouth. She grasped his hardness in her hand, ran her thumb in circles over the head. Logan held her wrist, tried to slow her motions. "I want you," she whispered against his mouth as she tugged at his hand to move it between her legs. It was a confession she had rarely ever verbalized.

"Rory. I want you, too," he murmured back. He watched her above him with sleepy eyes, slow sliding his fingers into her wetness, then brushing against her clit. She shut her eyes and pressed down against his hand, even as she continued to stroke him with hers. He flicked and teased until her moans punctuated his, accelerated. Then he abruptly stopped, moving his hands to her back as he turned her to lay on her back. "But we're going to do this properly this time," he amended.

"You weren't happy about how we did it the last time?" Rory asked in a low voice. Desire made her eyes black.

"So happy I want a repeat, just in slower-motion and with a little less…havoc, Ace," Logan replied, bending his forehead to hers. "We have time," he whispered, appeasing her need for urgency. _Time to love you today,_ he thought to himself, kissing her slowly to ease his own restlessness.

She felt the same to him; her body fit his hands as before. From the flare of her hip, the weight of her breasts, the curve of her calf and heel. She tasted the same. His tongue laved her nipples, dipped in her bellybutton. He licked a path between her thighs and explored her crevices thoroughly, the sounds she made a distant hum in his ears. They moved the same way, in a familiar and slow-then-quickening rhythm of thrusting and pulling, colliding and clinging.

She still said "I love you" against his neck after they made love.

She was still Rory. He missed her.

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"You have a bit of a tan line," Rory observed quietly. She traced it with her finger, about an inch below his bellybutton. Logan caught the wayward hand and flattened it against his stomach. They were leaning against the headboard, propped up against pillows.

"That's what you get when you live in the sunny climes of California," he quipped. "Where your work wardrobe consists of board shorts and flip-flops."

Rory looked up at him skeptically. "Seriously? I can't imagine you foregoing your Brooks Brothers for shorts."

He laughed. "Right. I've dropped the tie though. It's only this one guy in my office—Ben—who actually wears slippers and shorts to work. Very typical beach dude."

"So, _dude_," Rory teased, loving his laugh. "Is there a beach right there where you live?" She asked without thinking, without weighing the appropriateness of her question. Did she have a right to these little details of his life?

Logan paused, as if wondering how much to tell her. "I drive down to San Jose or to Half Moon Bay some weekends. The coast is beautiful there. Not often, though."

"That sounds nice," she replied. _If vague._ "Whereas us East coast folk have our pale skin, frenetic lifestyles, and glum dispositions. And snow in March." They both glanced at the window, where snow can be seen falling on the city.

"Well technically, you no longer live in the East coast, right? Or…am I wrong?" Logan asked, suddenly confused. It hit him that he no longer even knew where it was she considered home. "You mentioned flying to Chicago last night, to Hugo."

"Technically, I live in Chicago, in a studio—more like a shoe closet. At least that's where my mail goes; that's where my books are," she shrugged. "Right now it looks more like the Democrats' war room than a person's living space, though. Do you know I've never even been inside the Cultural Center?" She sounded wistful.

"So non-technically…" Logan prodded, looking down at Rory's head as she sank lower in the bed.

"I don't know. I don't really feel I live anywhere. Um…I covered Obama's campaign—did you know that? So I traveled a lot this last year, stayed longer in planes and buses than anywhere else. And I may be staying in Chicago now but Clio's here, so I expect my residential status to remain in flux." She plucked imaginary fibers from the blanket.

"Isn't this what you've always wanted, though? Traveling, reporting…there's no better person out there for a journalist to cover than Barack Obama."

"Britney Spears?" Rory cracked weakly. "But yeah, you're right. Following Obama's trail was an amazing experience. I really learned a lot."

"Okaaay," Logan hedged, sensing Rory's ambivalence. "That's sounds like something I've heard from every contestant who's been booted out of every reality show I've ever watched. It's that much of a dream come true to you, huh."

"No, seriously! I do think I've beefed up my journalistic credentials. I don't want to sound ungrateful for the opportunity I was given. I guess…I guess being a political correspondent just isn't as glamorous as I imagined; it's not what I thought it would be. I found it hard, Logan. Being transplanted from one hotel and road show to another, beating my deadlines… many times I found all this—politics—to be dry and monotonous and lacking in substance." Rory stopped, realizing she's never voiced out these thoughts to anyone before. She flopped a pillow over her face. "Sorry for venting," she muffled. "There's something therapeutic about contemplating your life while lying down. That Freud was onto something."

"The man's a genius. He also said sex was cathartic," Logan added, grinning at Rory's upturned eyes. "Hey," he began, scooting down the bed to lie beside her. "It's okay to find things rough in the beginning. But you were doing it, Ace. You _are_ doing it, and so very well." He took her hand, kissed her knuckles.

"And how would you know?"

"I do know you were part of Obama's press." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "I especially enjoyed 'Why this woman _and_ Yalie would rather Barack than Hillary.' That article was just flying around the web. I and every other Yale alumnus must have gotten that link in their email at least a dozen times."

Rory chuckled. "I had a blast writing that. Forget about being a shoo-in at Yale Law School, though. Grandpa wrote quite a lengthy reaction too, on Clio's site." She stared at the ceiling. "So um, so…you read my stuff?"

_I try not to,_ he answered inwardly. "I practically live in cyberspace, given what I do in Helix. So I come across a lot of people's stuff, including yours."

"Oh. Right." She casually pulled her hand from his, clutched the blanket closer to her chest as she sat up again. "So how are things in _cyberspaaace_?" Rory hushed, dramatically emphasizing the word, injecting humor in the moment so as not to be bogged down by his flippant response to her question.

"Fine. Fast."

"Oh. That's…good," she replied awkwardly. "And, uh…Palo Alto?"

Logan shrugged, rubbed his eyes. "I love the place." _You would have, too._

"Uh-huh." Rory's fragile sense of security cracked. He wasn't going to give her anything from his end. "Okay, look. That's not fair. I've just bared my soul on this bed—pardon the pun. While you…you have yet to tell me anything about your life, how you've been." She kept her tone normal, casual. "I want to know."

Logan sat up as well, stared at himself and Rory reflected on the mirror opposite the bed. "What's the point?" he simply said.

She was rendered speechless. And on cue, his cell phone rang, breaking the silence.

Logan stood up and walked the few steps to the table, picked up his phone. "Hey, Mike," he answered. "No, I'm awake." He squinted at his watch on the table; it was 7:30 am. "…No, still in New York…um, I'm not sure. I uh…I was thinking of staying the weekend, visit family. Unless…"

If Logan's response left her speechless, seeing him stark naked in front of her caused Rory's mind to go blank and hazy.

"Right. No problem, I'll check my email as soon as we end this…Yeah? When did that happen?..." Logan laughed, sending Rory a sidelong glance as he did.

_Oh God,_ Rory thought. _I love him and I want him, this blonde, brown-eyed, laughing man and damn, what the hell is going on here? What's the point, he says. What's the point?!?_ She scrambled around the bed, looking for her clothes. _I have to get dressed, and screw my head on straight, and then we'll talk. We'll talk._ She discovered her underwear, and vaguely remembered _something_ being torn the previous night. _Shoot_.

Something hit her on her back, and she turned to see that Logan had tossed her a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt. She dutifully put them on.

"Will do. And uh, would you mind telling Christine that the meeting with Mark Zuckerberg has been moved to Tuesday? He called yesterday to say that would be better for him…Yeah, thanks Mike."

Logan walked back to the bed, where Rory sat primly at the edge, disheveled but clothed, studying her knees. She cleared her throat. "So, um, a meeting with Mark Zuckerberg, huh."

"You know Mark?" With one nudge he caused Rory to fall on her back with a surprised yelp. He lay on his side beside her and ran one hand lightly over her breast, causing her nipple to protrude against his shirt. He nuzzled her neck.

"I may not be the most tech-savvy person, but I was born in this century and I do write for an online magazine," Rory retorted, breathing shallowly as Logan slipped his hand under the shirt. "Facebook, right? Logan…what are you doing?"

"We're collaborating on an improved platform that would allow users to have more applications in their accounts…" He lifted the shirt, ran his mouth along the underside of her breasts. "So people can share music, videos, albums, books, games…" He punctuated each word with a kiss.

"That sounds great," Rory mumbled with difficulty, watching his head descend lower on her torso. "But I meant, what are you doing…this, to me, here."

He lifted his head to look down at her face. What_ is _he doing? He couldn't tire of her "Well, you were ogling me..." he smiled impishly.

"I was not!"

"…so I thought I should do something to ease your suffering." He started pulling at her boxers.

"I'm grateful for your charity," she muttered sarcastically, but kissed him fervently.

"Seeing you in my clothes is always a turn-on."

"And here I had just put them on," Rory sighed in resignation, responding to his touching, moving up with him to the middle of the bed.

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Rory woke up to her cell phone ringing. She rolled over, and fell off the bed tangled in the blankets. She scrounged for Logan's discarded t-shirt and shorts, muttering _wait, wait, wait_ in cadence to 90s-Madonna's pulsating _Ray of Light_. Lorelai had programmed it in her cell phone, and Rory never bothered to change it. She found her phone in her coat pocket under the bed. It was Janet, with some questions about the article Rory had edited the night before. That's how Logan found her when he came out of the bathroom from his shower, sitting on the floor with her laptop open in front of her, her phone lodged between shoulder and ear. She gave him a smile when she saw him, not pausing from her conversation nor her fingers from tapping.

Their Friday morning was in full swing.

He, too, opened his laptop, sent emails, made and received calls. He worked on an upcoming presentation; she wrote and edited articles. They looked over each other's shoulders, commented on each other's work. She told him about how the meeting between Clio and Helix went. They watched the news on TV, talked about Clinton, Iraq, Laura and her adopted baby, Colin and his impending marriage. He helped her create a blog and an account in Facebook, explaining to her the finer points of social networking on the Internet, and berating her about how archaic it was that an online journalist did not have a blog. She ribbed him about being an Internet geek, but spent considerable time debating with him on an appropriate avatar.

If not sex, then work and idle pursuits would postpone any talk of significance about them, allay their angst over the inevitable.

They ate breakfast at 11. Rory thought it strange and uncanny that Logan had ordered guacamole along with their toast, eggs, pancakes, and bacon.

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"Honor called," Rory told Logan as he came in the room with the _Times_. He had gone out to get the paper. She would have read more into his leaving her in the hotel room, had he not left all his things behind.

"You talk to her?" he asked, handing her the paper and getting a piece of toast from her plate.

"Uh, no. I just saw her name." She felt a bit embarrassed about taking a peek at his phone.

"She's probably wondering if and when I'm coming over to see her, Josh, and Charlotte."

"Charlotte? Wow, good for them! Tell her congratulations from me…Or, er, not," she flustered. Had she overstepped again? Telling his sister congratulations with the new baby seemed a very intimate, _girlfriend_ thing to do. "So. When are you seeing them?"

Logan was holding his coffee cup, looking blankly out the window. "I don't know. I haven't seen her in over a year. Although we get to talk once in a while." He cleared his throat. "Actually, I haven't seen or spoken with the rest of them for almost a year." She knew he was referring to Mitchum and Shira.

Rory felt a pang of sadness, the toast she held in her hand forgotten. "But why?"

"I left my Dad's company, right? Turned my back on my only purpose for being. It was all we had in common." He looked down at the dregs in his cup. "That and the name, which I'm thinking I should change. 'Huntzberger' sticks out like some supercilious sore thumb in Silicon Valley," he added lightly.

"But…Thanksgiving? Christmas? Birthdays…?" she asked lamely.

He shrugged. "We're not into holiday hoopla, Rory. You know that."

"I'm sorry, Logan." She nudged her chair closer to his, brushed his arm with her hand. He took her hand in his. "So I'm thinking you should really visit Charlotte."

"Yeah. And commiserate with Josh at having two Huntzberger women in his family. Speaking of family and hoopla," Logan said, shifting gears. "How's Lorelai?"

"Oh, she's great," Rory said, brightening.

"The phone bills must cost the earth. I hope you're not starving yourself," he teased. He remembered the dead-of-night phone conversations, the frantic calls about whether the blue sweater is better than the black. He remembered his own last conversation with Lorelai. "You must be missing each other a lot."

"Yeah I miss her. I think we're getting used to it though. We've settled into a routine that works with our time zones and doesn't mess up our biorhythms too much. And she and Luke are renovating this amazing property which Grandma and Grandpa helped them purchase. Wait—did I say she and Luke? I meant _Luke_ was renovating the property. It has a lake, horses, the works."

"She and Luke? So they're back together."

"Yeah. Can you believe it? All's well that end's well. After everything, they really do belong together."

"Some people do," Logan said. He let go of her hand.

They read the paper together in silence, one hoping, the other doubting, that they're among those people.

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I took a shower. My body stung a little here and there, and ached in places I'd forgotten _can_ ache. Thinking about how he touched me made me happy, so happy I found myself humming some non-descript tune as I rinsed off the soap. And I really do not hum in showers.

I tried not to dwell on the fact that every time I said I love him, he never once said he loved me. Nor the fact that he evaded my questions about his life in Palo Alto. But there was a Ben, who liked wearing shorts and flip-flops to work; a Mike; a Christine; a meeting with Facebook on Tuesday; trips to San Jose and Half Moon Bay some weekends which gave him a tan line. I committed those small details to memory. It was a start.

And the fact that he seemed to want me as much as I wanted him. That, too, was a start. He could have just left me, or pushed me out the door. But he stayed, and we had time.

As I brushed my teeth, I heard him moving about in the hotel room. His footsteps were long, muffled by the carpet. I dried my long hair with a towel, heard him talking over the telephone. I deciphered the words "check-out", and "cab", and "Penn Station". I put on his t-shirt and boxers slowly, pulling at one wayward thread along the fraying hem. There was a heavy thud, a snap, which sounded terribly like luggage being shut. And in the silence of the 4-star, Italian-tiled bathroom, I could almost hear my heart breaking.

I told him I couldn't say goodbye. So I stayed in the bathroom. Waiting for the steam, and the pain, to dissipate.

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"Rory." Logan spoke through the bathroom door. "Please."

He pressed his forehead against the wood, banged against it lightly. _Can he really do this? _

"Rory, please come out. I can't…I won't leave like this. I need to know you'll be okay." He winced at his own words. Of course they won't be okay. But they will be, after a while. He knows from experience.

"Okay. Okay?" Rory's voice, dangerously high-pitched, wafted from the bathroom. "Okay?!?"

"Rory—"

"What was all this about, Logan? Was this some medieval 12-hour torturous goodbye ritual you picked up from one of your travels to Europe or Fiji or wherever? Was this a…a…an old strategy of yours from back in the day when you were drunk, promiscuous, and in college? Were you just snowed in, or did you just happen to miss your flight to San Francisco and had nothing better to do?" The door opened abruptly and Rory strode out to the room.

"Did you think that this—" she gestured wildly to the bed—"that this was a good idea, a romantic idea, a nice way to say goodbye? Is that it, were you just being _nice_ to me? Am I that pathetic?" She stood with arms akimbo, looking angry. Then she closed her eyes and put her hands to her forehead, looking lost.

Logan let her rant, let the air settle between them. "No. Rory, you're far from pathetic, and I wasn't just being nice. God, no."

"Then why did this happen? What was all this for?" she asked plaintively.

"I wanted to be with you. We both wanted this time to be together," he said simply.

"But you're leaving."

"What did you expect? Were you thinking that we would get back together again, have a relationship? Become friends, lovers, what? What do you want?" It was his turn to be incredulous.

"I thought that we…that we would try…" she stammered. "Logan, today we were…we were talking and okay—more than okay…we were all right." _We were happy._ She knew it, felt it.

He looked away, shook his head a little. "Today we were cooped up in a hotel room. I live and work in San Francisco. You live and work in Chicago, or New York, or some other place you might find yourself in the foreseeable future. How is this going to happen? In case you've forgotten, I no longer have a private jet at my disposal, Rory."

"I'm sorry I don't have the logistics all thought out. I thought we would talk about it, make plans." She looked him with guileless eyes. "I just want you back in my life."

"You never thought to ask whether I want you back in mine."

Rory felt like she had been doused with cold water. "You…don't?"

He started pacing a little, feeling edgy. He wished he can maintain his composure, not be so blunt. Finally, he just looked at her. "No, Rory. I…I don't want you back in my life." He watched her face crumble a little. "I may have been the fool who asked you to marry him, but I'm not a masochist."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You, of all people, do not need a dictionary. It means I don't relish the prospect of being in pain."

"You dish it out pretty well, though," she retorted.

"Rory…" He sounded tired. "I don't want to fight."

"I will not hurt—" she stopped herself. It was a promise she couldn't make. Instead she said the only thing that made sense to her. "You don't love me anymore."

The idea—that she could even think it—snapped Logan's self-control. "Damn, you just don't get it Rory! Stop thinking of yourself for a second. _You were all I had!_ You have no idea what I went through. Moving to San Francisco, I had nothing but this job. I was practically starting from scratch. And I thought I can make a start with you, but you didn't want that. You wanted your choices, your options, your wide-open future." He paused to breathe, ran his hand through his hair. "You have no idea, Rory. You were all I had."

His proposal came back to her. _As long as you're with me, I'll be okay._ As the words sunk in, she stepped towards him, but he moved away from her. "Logan, I'm sorry. I can't take all that back. I'm just so very sorry."

"Yeah. We can't undo anything. It's done." He spoke in a low voice. "And there's nothing to be sorry about. I'm not angry or anything. At some level I even understand why you said no. I can't help how I feel about it though."

"Maybe…maybe you should ask me again."

He shook his head. "No."

"I love you." Again. Still.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does!"

"Not when you choose to have separate lives. There's more to all this than 'love'."

"I do want a life with you."

"You don't know—you're not ready for what that entails."

"Don't patronize me!"

There was silence; it was yet another impasse. Logan finally spoke. He did so with gentle finality. "I don't want or expect anything from you, Rory. Just…just go on and live your life. Don't factor me in on any pro-con list. You have an amazing job, you're doing so well, and I can see all the opportunities ahead of you." His voice broke, a little. "I wish I can be with you. But I'm not ready for that either."

He approached her cautiously. Her eyes were downcast; he couldn't see their blue. He kissed her cheek. It was wet, salty. Then he picked up his luggage and walked out the door.

Rory crawled back into bed and burrowed under the covers. She smelled him on the pillow, smelled them. It occurred to her that she was still wearing his clothes, his brown t-shirt and blue boxers. They were two more things to put in the Logan box.

END OF PART I

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**Author's Note:** To anyone who might still be in doubt, I am a staunch Sophie, and I am writing this fic to give Rory and Logan a better story and ending. But I need to follow through from the show's ending/canon, how they depicted RL. And given that, there's no nice and easy way to resolve the rift in their relationship. So I hope you'll bear with me, and read even through the sad and bittersweet (but necessary—I think) parts of the story. There's more in store for Rory and Logan, and it won't be long now (I've planned for just 4 or 5 more chapters). Are you curious? I'm so excited. In the meantime, thanks for reading and reviewing. :)


	6. Interlude

**Interlude**

I've repotted my avocado plant. Rolled up my sleeves and literally dug a spoon into the dirt, half-burrowing the seed into the soil of my clay pot. _And then there was earth!_ The ecology of my home-grown plant was complete. We commemorated the milestone with Krispy Kremes and coffee.

We've been through a lot, my plant and I. I've obsessed over it, read through dozens of avocado websites (who knew there were dozens), tracked its progress and problems religiously in my notes (yellowing leaves signal overwatering). I've chatted with my neighbors about it, in days when I would leave it out by the window in the hallway, near the stairwell, where there's better sunlight. (Apparently, growing an avocado plant in Chicago is nearly unheard of.) I've engaged it in one-sided stream-of-consciousness conversations as I washed dishes and thought about Logan. It gave me comfort, like some New Age style of psychotherapy. But then there were days when I let things slide, when I was just not up to it—neglecting to give it water, forgetting to scrutinize the condition of its stems and leaves for days at a time. It would dry up and wilt a little, throw me withering glances from across the kitchen as I worked on my laptop or watched TV. Then I would be wracked with guilt, and I'd nurture and prune it back to its vibrant self in the next few days.

And yes, some days I do feel I've gone off the deep end. At worst, I imagined myself living the remainder of my single existence eating avocados. And at my death, my undiscovered body surrounded by avocado plants, with leaves stuck in my hair. (Horrible. But I suppose I'd rather plants than cats, no offense to Babette or cats.)

What I've learned—what I never realized until now—is how much effort went into having a plant. (No wonder my mother swore off growing any greens. Or eating them, for that matter.) Plants don't grow just because you want them to. And they die effortlessly. Good intentions aren't enough; it takes considerable investment of time and energy. We couldn't just have jumped back together and picked up from where we left off. Neither of us were ready for that—though I thought I was. I wanted him, but it wasn't that simple. I thought we might be able to endure the distance for the sake of having _some_ form of relationship. For love. For the sake of our still-growing careers. Of course he didn't want that. I can't imagine why I thought he might, when what he wanted was to marry me (and he clearly no longer wanted that either). And the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether some ill-conceived long-distance relationship is what I want too. Logan was right. I have no idea about what's entailed in getting back together with him, much less sharing a life.

And maybe Paris and her treasure trove of depressing post-college relationship statistics was right. Most relationships do not withstand the realities of the post-college world. Even the best of them, even relationships with the one you think is the _one_. There is _no_ one. That's just the way it is. No blame or lengthy explanations. You just move on, meet other people, have a career _then_ a life way into your thirties. I really should know better by now than to question Paris' sweeping wisdom. (I'm rolling my eyes as I think this.) How ironic though, that Paris has Doyle. While I'm the textbook case of a single twenty-something with a post-college relationship gone awry.

Still. Smack dab in the middle of the normal statistical curve I may be, I feel like I screwed up in a major, irreparable way. I believe that what Logan and I had was a rare and remarkable thing. The kind that conjures up all the craziness of held hands and umbrellas, jumping off seven-storey scaffolds in ballgowns and tuxedos. Or the passion of a night out on a rooftop, creating a meteor shower in the absence of a real astronomical one. Or the quiet closeness of falling asleep to the sound of the other's breathing over a long-distance call, an Atlantic ocean away.

I've tried to let it go, to just throw it out, this stupid, silly avocado plant. It's been 43 days since those 12 hours in New York. I finally had my closure. I've held it over the open waste bin, the stems clamped in my fist, the roots all tangled and crazy and reaching. But I couldn't bear it. It felt murderous and unnecessarily harsh. It has no fault, and I was the one who gave it life. And it _is_ still alive, you know? It's not dead.

And so my plant and I, we're plodding along, continuing to survive. It seems futile, as I'm told a house plant won't even ever bear fruit. But I'm committed. I've put it in soil, repotted it. Giving it a chance, at least some more space, to grow a little more.

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"So." Rory coughed nervously. "Thanks again for bringing me home," she said for the upteenth time.

"My pleasure," Jeff said, beaming. "Thanks for allowing me to have you all to myself for cake and coffee. There are few things in life more fulfilling than watching Rory Gilmore eat a chocolate cake that's been named _Better Than Sex_."

_The story of my life,_ Rory blushed. "Uh, well, there are few things in life more satisfying than chocolate, period. But no, thank _you_ for coming all the way from New York with Hugo, Laura, everyone," she continued, swiftly changing the topic, hoping to eliminate any more sex-related words or ideas from their conversation. "It was a great surprise."

"Well, a fancy 12-course lauriat at the corner Chinese restaurant is the least we can offer to Clio's stellar nominee for the Online Journalism Award." Jeff stepped a couple of inches closer to Rory, who was leaning against the door of her apartment. "And Rory, I think we've fulfilled our quota for after-dinner thank yous."

Rory felt the panic bubbling around her stomach, and decided to prolong the chit-chat. "Oh, I don't know, it's a nomination, for just this one piece. I doubt I'll get the OJA; they should give it to Bob Applegate, you know? He's been around longer, he's a veritable institution in online medi…"

Jeff had leaned down and planted his lips on hers. She obediently shut her eyes, held her breath, tried to concentrate on the sensation. Her fingers scrunched her sweater at her stomach, trying to put some barrier between their bodies. _Hm, my sweater's missing a button,_ she realized inwardly, feeling for it with her fingers. _Must sew on a replacement tonight, if I manage to find my sewing kit._

"Rory," Jeff sighed in exasperation, finally breaking the kiss. "What is it?"

"What's what?" She stared at the small coffee stain on his shirt.

"What are you thinking? Your mind's obviously somewhere else."

_Buttons,_ she thought. "I'm sorry, Jeff," was all she thought to say. She said it again, with greater sincerity. "I'm so sorry. I'm just tired. All the excitement, you know…"

He looked down at his shoes. "Okay. This obviously isn't working. I really like you, Rory. But I just can't keep on waiting in the sidelines. There's only so many times a guy can be brushed off without some serious damage to his ego. I'm sorry, too."

"You're such a great guy, Jeff. I mean that." She looked at his eyes, wanting to want him.

"Yeah?" He gave a small shrug. "I guess. Not as great as him, though."

"As who?"

"As whoever it is you think about whenever you get this particular glazed look in your blue eyes."

"Glazed?" Rory repeated, a bit stupidly. "Like a doughnut?" She wanted to kick herself.

"Like a person wishing she were with someone else. Like a person still in love with that someone else." He stepped forward again, gave the stiff-stanced Rory an awkward embrace. "I hope he's worth it, Rory. Take care of yourself. I'll see you around."

As he turned the corner to the stairwell, he called out, "And congratulations!"

Rory entered her apartment, feeling massively relieved that Jeff didn't spend the night and that he was such a good-natured, easy-going (easy-to-turn-down) guy. She spied her avocado plant at the corner of her eye as she hung up her coat, and felt massively guilty.

"Gimme a break," she muttered in its general direction. "I've been trying, okay?" She stared at it. "What? I can't help having '_glazed_ eyes'!," she exclaimed, pointing to her eyeballs for emphasis. Her plant remained unmoved, but was spared a longer diatribe when Rory's telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey, hon! How was the peking duck?"

"Hey, Mom. It was all good. Crispy skin, high-fat, high-cholesterol, just the way you like it."

"Sounds delish. And the fortune cookie? What did it say?"

"That I would spend the rest of my days in celibacy, shave off my hair, and live next door to the Dalai Lama seeking true happiness and inner peace. Oh, on second thought, the Chinese wouldn't be writing fortunes about the Dalai Lama, would they?"

"But the people of India would, as fortunes for fortune cookies are likely being mass produced off-shore somewhere in Bangalore. So, nothing on winning the OJA in four weeks' time?"

"Nope. And fortune cookies don't lie, not if they taste good." Rory sighed, flopping on her lumpy sofa. "Honestly? I'm not getting what all the fuss is about. No, wait. I get it, but I'm not feeling it. It's nice, but it's really no big deal. I was just writing."

"I miss Paris," Lorelai replied, out of the blue.

"Paris? Paris the most romantic place on earth, or Paris the reigning bane in the existence of the medical teaching profession at Harvard?"

"If she were gunning for the OJA, you'd want it. Oh, you still won't admit it, but you'd want it real bad. Right now you're complacent, resting on your laurels, thinking 'OJA? Pfft.'"

"Not true. I say this in all humility, Mom. It doesn't seem right that I get it, you know? I've only been doing this a year, and you know I've been thinking about doing something else. So, it doesn't seem right that I get it."

"Rory, this nomination is testimony to your journalistic genius. It paves the way for so many opportunities for you. You're the brilliant ingenue, the up-and-coming writer to watch out for. So suck it up and enjoy the accolades. I'm so proud of you, honey." There was a catch in her voice. "We're all so proud of you."

"Uh…sure." Rory thought that Lorelai sounded a little choked up at the end of her drawn-out, sentimental spiel. "Mom, is everything okay?"

"We're so proud of you," Lorelai repeated. "Dad, especially."

"Grandpa? Yeah, he emailed me a really cute animated congratulatory card the other day, with blooming flower buds and popping balloons. That man is becoming way too adept in his online correspondence."

There was silence at the other end of the line.

"Mom? What's going on?"

"It's your Grandpa." Then it came out in a rush. "Rory, I'm at the hospital right now, and Grandpa's been…"

"What?" Rory interrupted. "How could you have been talking gibberish all this time when Grandpa's at the hospital? Oh my God, Grandpa's back in the hospital! How bad is it? How is Grandma? Really, Mom, peking duck and fortune cookies? And this…this…OJA? Can you be any more inappropriate?"

"Yes I can be, but how inappropriate of you to suggest that I be more inappropriate at a time like this."

"Mom!"

"I'm sorry, honey." Lorelai's tone turned serious. "I thought I might be able to soften the blow a little bit."

"There's no need to. I'm a big girl."

"Really? I must have forgotten, you were barely five feet tall when I saw you last." Lorelai sighed and plunged ahead. "Dad had another heart attack, Rory. His doctors are doing everything they can, but seeing that this is his second episode in two years…there's been a lot of damage to his heart, and there's his age…and honey, they're not very optimistic."

"Oh no," Rory whispered. "What does that mean?"

"The words 'ventricular', 'papillary', and 'arrythmia' were bandied about, which sounds all Swahili and scary. I think the only detail you need to know is that Dad has asked to see you."

Rory felt her throat tighten, her eyes water. "I'm out of here. As soon as I can, I'm out of here." She paced restlessly around the small living room.

"I'm sure Mom would feel better, too, if you were here. I certainly would…I think I was better with her rattling on about her social calendar and Dad's insurance policy and his will and her lawyers and ordering salmon and screaming at nurses and not…not being quiet. I mean, that's Mom, right? DAR lady extraordinaire, even in the most trying circumstances. But she's become so quiet, Rory. And I actually caught her eating the lime jello from Dad's tray a while ago. I just don't know how to deal with her when she's eating jello and has become so quiet." _So vulnerable,_ Lorelai thought. She's never seen her mother so vulnerable, and she's never felt more helpless. She needed her level-headed Rory to balance things out, make sense of it all.

"I'm out of here. Please tell Grandpa to hold on. For me. I'm coming to see him. Tell Grandma."

"We'll be waiting, hon. I'll see you soon."

Rory hung up and stood still for a moment. She let out a loud exhale of a sob that seemed to bounce off the walls. Then she wiped her eyes, pulled her hair back, and strode to her closet to collect some clothes. She began a mental checklist: _Toothbrush. Underwear. Travel arrangements—do this first! Call Hugo, take a leave. Leave plant with Doreen. Black dress. Black dress?_ She dropped the clothes in a heap on the floor and Indian-sat beside it. She closed her eyes, tried to process and think about Richard and Emily for a heartbeat. She missed them so much in the last year.

"Guess I'm going home," she said to her plant. To no one in particular.


	7. Roots

**5. Roots**

We were there at his bedside when Grandpa died. My grandmother, my mother, and myself. The Gilmore girls. The women he had provided and cared for for much of his life. The women whose spirited natures and mindless chatter he had indulged, put up with. The woman—my mother—who was in every way the daughter, causing him joy and pain and pride the way daughters do their fathers. Myself, in every way the grandchild, initially lost and watched from a distance, but then found and doted on and cherished in the way he would have his own daughter, if only he had known how, and if only she had allowed him. And my grandmother, in every way the wife.

She said to him, "My dearest Richard, my darling Richard," kissing his hand and nodding imperceptibly to the doctor to finally detach the tubes and machines that had kept him alive. And as he did, it seemed as if he had also detached my grandmother's life support. My Grandpa was her life's support. Strong-willed as she was, she seemed smaller as she kissed his head.

And I was crying, but I wasn't certain for whom or for what. Was it for the loss of my beloved Grandpa, or more for the poignant heartache of my Grandma? Was it for my mother and the years she had wasted, so distant from her father? Or was I crying for the depth of love I felt in that white, sterile, hospital room, love that may have been hidden, understated, or misunderstood; love that can dominate a life; love that may cause so much pain. But love still.

I touched Grandpa's foot, so still under the blanket. I watched my grandmother whisper into my grandfather's ear, for the last time. I watched my mother, leaning on Luke's shoulder and clutching my other hand in hers.

And I knew that love mattered more than anything.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As memorial services go, it was beautiful. I've always wondered what people meant when they said, "that was a beautiful service", whether it was all just rote etiquette. It seemed like such an oxymoron to think of death and its commemoration as such. But Grandpa's was, because we decided to serenade him with his favorite tunes: Gershwin, Chuck Berry, Bing Crosby. Because the Saturday morning was sunny and breezy, and the stained glass windows in the church cast a kaleidoscope of color on the plain white walls. And it was beautiful because my mother said a few words, and shed a lot of tears. I think it meant the world to Grandma to hear Lorelai talk about how much she looked up to her father—literally—as a little girl of 4, running around in circles at his feet when he came home from his travels, and as a grown woman, basking in his pride when she finally opened the Dragonfly. How much of her love for him bloomed from witnessing my love for Grandpa and his for me. Mom had always kept her emotions in check when it came to Grandpa (and Grandma), refusing to lay out her cards on the table for fear of giving away her last semblance of control. But perhaps they knew anyway, knew that they loved each other fiercely.

But yes, Lorelai and Emily still bickered through the floral arrangements, the program, the choice of music, down to the color of the casket (there were catalogs after all!). And I still had to play the dogged role of referee more than half the time. Between Grandma's gold-filigreed ivory, Mom's basic maple, and a heated exchange of protests that it was no big deal because it would be buried underground anyway but in the meantime we had to give him a proper and dignified ceremony for his friends and colleagues, I finally ended up selecting the dark oak. (It was so distinguished, like Grandpa.) The whole exercise of arranging the funeral was something right out of _Six Feet Under_, surreal in an almost funny, slightly dysfunctional way. We three found relief in the mundane, and in the fact that some things in our family probably won't ever change.

And as Gilmore functions go, the memorial service and reception was well-populated with the blue-bloods of Hartford, the Bulldogs of Yale, the ladies of DAR. Oh, and the townspeople of Stars Hollow. I milled around Grandpa and Grandma's crowded living room at the reception, occupying myself with much fidelity—as I had in the past two weeks—with the duties of grandchild, hostess, and all-around attendant at everyone's beck and call. It had been a welcome distraction to set appointments, make arrangements, send notices, see to Grandma's welfare. It kept my precariously uneven feelings on even keel.

As I did the rounds, I overheard Miss Patty, gabbing on about flower bulbs and ferns with Tweenie Halpern; Kirk, expounding loudly on his latest business scheme with a moustachioed former associate of Grandpa's (personalized funeral plans, a keep-your-dearly-departed-close-by-in-your-own-backyard arrangement, was what I understood from his pitch to me). There was Taylor, looking nice in a suit but flush-faced and sweaty, basking in the perfumed advances of Miss Grumwold. Michel, foregoing the diet and savoring the selection of French pastries with Sookie and a cluster of DAR ladies whose names I've regrettably forgotten. The two worlds of my mother and Grandma, which both have managed to keep separate, now commiserated—in a distinctly un-mournful way—over hors d'oeuvres.

The rumbling in my stomach finally registered, and I grabbed a coveted salmon puff from a passing tray (flicking off some garnish for good measure). As I did, I saw the entrance of Shira and Mitchum Huntzberger at the foyer.

_Damn_.

My chest involuntarily tightened at such a physical, flesh-and-blood reminder of Logan. _Don't lose it, not here._ (Although, this would have been the perfectly acceptable occasion to lose it, albeit for a different reason.) With everything that has happened in the last weeks, it seemed that I didn't even have a moment to think of him at all. Seeing the Huntzbergers rekindled my awareness of my deep-seated, abiding need for him. Now more than ever.

I made a beeline for the terrace, for air.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, you." The greeting startled Rory, jolting her from her contemplation of the foliage in her grandparents' garden. She was wondering about whether her avocado plant was getting enough sun.

"Lane!"

The two engulfed each other in a hug, swaying side to side like the third-grade best friends they were.

"Oh Rory, how are you?" Lane asked earnestly, sliding her arm through Rory's as they meandered towards an iron-wrought bench.

"Fine," Rory replied automatically.

"Uh-huh. We haven't seen each other in months and months, Steve and Kwan are practically all grown-up and growing facial hair, and am I not still your best friend from way back when we secretly revered Robert Smith and Bono when every other girl in our third-grade class had boy band posters in their bedrooms? Surely I warrant more than a 'fine'," Lane reprimanded her at length. "I tried catching you at the crap shack the last few weeks. I didn't realize you were staying here with your grandmother all this time."

"Lane, Steve and Kwan are just one-and-a-half and the image of them with facial hair is seriously disturbing—but oh, I want to see them! And I'll have you know that I once had a poster of N'Sync in my bedroom in this very house. That makes _you_ the weird one."

"How are you holding up?" Lane squeezed Rory's hand.

"I miss him," she said simply. _Grandpa and Logan both._

"I can imagine. It all happened so fast, didn't it?"

"I wish we had more time," Rory began slowly. "He was already—he had already lapsed into a coma when I flew in. We could have had one more conversation, you know? Talked about—I don't know—politics, Grandma, yet another place in the world to add to our long list of places to travel to, sometime, when we got around to it. And what really bothers me, is that I wish I had answered his last email to me. I just didn't have time, you know? What if he had gotten up that morning and checked his email, wondering if I had a note for him?"

They lapsed into sympathetic silence.

"Well," Lane began. "This is small comfort, but at least you know how proud and happy he is for you. That nomination—"

"Yeah, I guess," Rory replied.

"The whole of Stars Hollow is proud of you," she continued. "But I'm guessing you know that by now and you're probably thinking these crazy townspeople have gone way overboard. Big city girl that you are. And it's the last thing you need at a time like this. I tried telling Taylor."

Since her return to Hartford and Stars Hollow, Rory had been bombarded with congratulatory hugs and thumbs-ups, two free welcome home sundaes from Taylor's shop and free burgers from Luke's for as long as she's in town. At a town meeting she later regretted attending, she was presented with a framed clipping from the _Stars Hollow Chronicle _ heralding the news of her OJA nomination (apparently, they were running reprints of her online articles too). "Daughter of Stars Hollow Bags Prestigious Nomination," the headline ran (subtitled: "_And we knew her when she was in diapers!" townspeople report_). All this in stark contrast to the expression of their sympathies and regrets over her Grandpa's attack and eventual passing.

Rory smiled a little. "I'm still waiting for my sash and scepter, you know. But I guess that would come when I get the award. Seriously, I appreciate everyone's support. And I'm not some big city girl, you know me better than that. Chicago is a little too…steel-and-skyscrapery for me. I don't imagine myself living there for long."

"Ah, but Stars Hollow is a little too small for the up-and-coming journalist who's being called 'the voice of her generation'. At least you were born there, maybe that would finally put us on the map, like what Shakespeare did for Stratford-upon-Avon. But hey," Lane turned to face Rory, shifting gears. "I don't think I ever got to tell you—I loved your series, you know. The ones on Hillary Clinton's legacy? The articles that got you the nomination. Not that I can relate…" she laughed and pointed to her slightly bulging tummy. "How'd you get the idea to write about that?"

"Well I was supposed to just write a plain old spiel about her achievements. But then I started thinking about what it was about her—her legacy, so to speak—that really made an impact on me, and other women like me—us—who were growing up while she was First Lady and Senator and now in all likelihood the most powerful woman in the world. And it was this idea that—"

"Women can have it all," Lane finished.

"Be intelligent and have a brilliant law and political and public service career and a nice little family—"

"I don't know, there _was_ that cigar incident, which my mother tried valiantly to protect me from…"

"But they overcame that. Or at least that's what they showed us. And she has a daughter, and—and oh, right, she's blonde—"

"She's not very attractive, though. Do you find her pretty? Well at least she's prettier than Chelsea," Lane said thoughtfully.

"The point is, I look at her, and that's what she tells me. 'Woman, you can have it all'. So then I began talking to these random women in their twenties in Chicago, see what they thought about that—this waitress—"

"Oh, Shiela. She's my favorite. What a potty mouth," Lane interrupted again.

"A graduate student—Lindsay, and Sarah, an overworked intern at an advertising company. And then online, my inbox became flooded with all these personal stories and opinions from women all over. The response was just overwhelming."

"Like I said, I loved reading about life out there, women in the 'real world' living this so-called 'quarter-life crisis'," Lane said, making air quotes. "My life seems so different. But it still made me…_wonder_, you know? I'm pregnant, I have twins that can still barely walk, and a set of precious drums that now serve the only purpose of having my kids bang on them to release excess energy before settling in at night. It made me think of my dreams…before Zach. And now, well, there's…Zach."

"It makes me wonder too, Lane," Rory said quietly. "And I think many of us are struggling with this…need and expectation to be successful and have a career, but then also to be happy…and have relationships," she floundered, finding it difficult to verbalize her own conflicted feelings.

"And then there's Paris," Lane chimed in.

"And then there's Paris," Rory agreed. "You're happy though, Lane. Aren't you?"

She paused for a moment, weighing her thoughts, absent-mindedly rubbing her stomach. "There are days I wish I could do more than cook and clean and play with the kids and read _Goodnight Moon_ a dozen times a night and all these other motherhood things that occupy about 80 of my life. I think, there's got to be more than this, right? I think about going back to school, Rory. And I can't believe that _now_ I'm hearing my mother's constant nagging about education, when all I wanted back then was to play music. But there's only so much I can do…and going to school isn't one of them, not right now. My family—" she ended up shrugging.

"Yeah. It took a while for Mom too. Hey, you didn't answer my question."

"I can't imagine my life without Zach or my kids, Rory," she said simply. "I can't say I don't have regrets, but I don't regret marrying Zach. I wouldn't trade them in for anything..."

"Not even that fantasized gig with Robert Smith," Rory teased. Inside, she felt an ache that might have been akin to envy.

Lane made a face, slapped Rory's arm. "Yuck, and what a sordid pre-pubertal fantasy that was. Have you no respect for the sensibilities of a pregnant woman? What about you—you happy, Ror?"

Rory puffed her cheeks, blew out a deep sigh. "Wow. I guess. I should be."

"But…?"

"But…I'm…_fine_," she finished, bringing their conversation full-circle.

Lane glared at her.

"Oh, what's that? I think I hear a baby calling," Rory said, furrowing her brow and stretching her neck.

"I hate you. You owe me."

"I am your best friend. You're not allowed to hate me."

"Oh, Rory, look," Lane said, suddenly lowering her voice and jerking her head towards the French windows behind their bench. "It's Emily."

Rory turned her head slightly and saw her grandmother seated by herself in her Grandpa's study.

"Is she okay?" Lane asked.

"I think I should check on her," Rory said, standing up.

"I'll let you go, but you owe me the story of your life," Lane hissed again.

"I'll give Steve and Kwan fabulous gifts this Christmas," Rory appeased Lane, pecking her cheek.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory poked her head in the doorway of her grandfather's study. It was the only room in the first floor that was kept shut, that wasn't teeming with people paying their respects. It was as it was, uncleaned and untouched, since Richard's heart attack. Emily was sitting on Richard's leather armchair, looking at photographs she had lain out on the desk. She looked up and saw Rory.

"Come in, Rory," Emily invited quietly.

"Hey, Grandma." Rory walked behind the desk and leaned down to give Emily a brief, one-armed hug. Then she perched herself on the desk, looking down at the pictures of Richard in various ages and poses: dancing with Emily at their vow renewal; young and lanky, wearing checkered pants at the golfing green; with a bunch of mischievous-looking men holding up mugs of beer, looking distinctly drunk and merry (this picture reminded her terribly of Colin and Finn); a faded, solemn solo in Yale cap and gown.

"I wish I could have used this one instead of that horrid one at the service," she fretted, tapping her finger on a shot of Richard, laughing, on what looked like a bridge overlooking old, gabled rooftops. "In Prague. We had such a lovely time there." Her eyes became nostalgic, then annoyed. "Why did I ever allow Lorelai to use his photo from the company annual report? He looked like someone who was about to retire, which he was."

"This _is_ a wonderful picture, Grandma," Rory agreed. "And I liked the one in the church too."

"Oh, well," Emily shrugged, dismissing the issue.

Silence ensued, the muffled, chaotic voices outside the door the backdrop to the tenuous, fragile moment in the room.

She finally said, "I don't know what to do tomorrow, Rory. Or the day after that."

Rory felt a tightening in her throat. "Oh, Grandma. You loved him so well."

"All my life. I don't know how to do anything else, be anything else, than the one who looked to his meals and arranged his calendar and read with him after dinner." Then she brushed at her eyes impatiently. "I'm making a mess of myself. You don't have to stay and listen to an old widow's maudlin sentimentality, Rory." She looked up at Rory. "You go on out and talk to Ling. I saw you two out there in the garden."

Rory felt like she was a six-year-old being shushed out of "adult" conversation. "It's okay, Grandma. I can stay here for a while. And I'm going to stay here with you, keep you company, for another week or so." _Until you can settle into a new routine post-Grandpa,_ Rory thought to herself. Then wondered sadly_, will she ever?_

"I shouldn't be keeping you from your job."

"Hugo knows."

"Well there is a lot to be done," Emily began, ever efficient. "Just his study, for one." She looked around the room.

"And then Tweenie Halpern had mentioned the annual DAR fundraising event, too."

"Oh, yes. Richard and I had planned to attend, of course, if Tweenie can manage to whip up something more interesting than roast beef." Emily stood up and began rearranging the photographs, pausing for the briefest second to stare at their black-and-white wedding photo, before putting it back in the stack.

"Grandma?"

"Hm?"

"Do you…did you ever wonder or wish or, or…just think about what life would have been like if you hadn't married Grandpa so young?"

Emily glanced at her, looking a bit taken aback by her question, and Rory berated herself for her spontaneous and inappropriate bout of curiosity.

But then Emily answered her plainly. "Even before he proposed to me, I knew in my heart that I wanted to be the wife of Richard Gilmore, spend my life with him." Then she looked keenly at Rory. "Of course, it appears that the lives of young women today are so much more different and complicated, as you've written about so wonderfully."

"But is it? Any more different or complicated?" _In the end, don't we all want the same things,_ Rory asked herself.

"Of course. You're different. Different from me or your mother."

She felt a little confused, and protest was bubbling in her chest. "What do you mean I'm different?"

"You are Rory Gilmore. Lorelai Leigh Gilmore, just look at yourself. At 24, beautiful and with a bright future, so successful at a young age. You are everything your grandfather and mother hoped you would be."

"And so if I had been more like you or my mother—married young or had a child or chose the not so straight and narrow Ivy League path, I would have disappointed everyone?" Perhaps she was tired, but she was suddenly, inexplicably, all riled up at her grandmother's comment.

"Now what has gotten into you? The fact is you did neither of those things," Emily said with a tone of finality.

"I have to go and see to our guests, Grandma," Rory simply answered in a tired voice, kissing her grandmother's cheek and leaving the study.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am indeed, as the headline said, the daughter of Stars Hollow. I'm the epitome of that African proverb (and incidentally Hillary Clinton's famed book) "It takes a village to raise a child". And sometimes, I feel that the hopes and expectations of an entire village are upon my shoulders. Sometimes—in recent months—I've wondered whether what I've decided to do in my life is more a function of what I want, or what I feel others want for me. I do so hate to disappoint people I care about.

The truth is that I wrote that online series as an almost embarrasingly personal account of my own uncertainties about the path I've chosen and the future I'm shaping for myself. All those women—and I—we do want to have it all. But perhaps that's a pipe dream, a meaningless mantra. Perhaps it's about making choices, having to sacrifice one for another, rather than having it all.

One thing I learned from my Grandpa's death, is that life matters, and time matters. And so love matters. But if I had chosen love, if I had chosen to factor him in, would I have been any less accomplished? Any less the Rory that would make the village proud? Any less of myself?

I really should stop bothering to try to answer those questions. It's done; there is no choice to be made. I've written my piece, told the story, got the nomination. And made everyone proud.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory went back to the fray, her mind heavy from her conversation with Lane and then Emily. She went back to her tasks in a robotic fashion, marching back and forth from the kitchen to check on drinks, trays, coffee, and Kirk (who has been known to do some impromptu performance art when sloshed, typically sans clothes). She was bringing a pot of tea, as requested, to Miss Patty, when something—or rather someone—at her peripheral vision made her walk more slowly, and altogether stop.

Even with his back to her, she would know that blonde head of hair anywhere. Even with his back to her, she knew his stance, the way he shifted his feet, the way he gestured with his right hand as he talked, the way he kept his left hand in his pants pocket. She even knew the dark grey suit, had it dry cleaned for him once.

The room spun around slightly, and she felt out of breath. Perhaps she was seeing things, the recent turn of her thoughts conjuring his image before her. _Yes, I must be really tired now,_ she thought to herself. But just as she set her mind straight that it couldn't be him, the man turned around, as if suddenly aware that someone had been staring at him for the last minute. And it was him. In the Gilmore mansion. All the way from San Francisco, or wherever it was he came from.

She set the tea pot carefully at the nearest surface—a bookshelf—her shaking hand having caused it to spill a bit under the lid. She couldn't bring herself to look up, perhaps fearing that if she did, he would be gone. Or that if she did and he were still there, she would—what? She didn't know what she would do. Either way, she might fall apart. So she carefully swiped the small puddles of tea on the shelf with her fingers.

"Rory?" His voice was low, questioning. He had entered her field of vision, her airspace. He touched her lightly at her back, but she felt him in her bones.

"You have a helicopter parked somewhere?" she blurted out, still dumbstruck to see his brown eyes looking down at her to think of anything more intelligent to say.

He gave a small laugh at her unexpected greeting. "I wish, so I could have gotten here sooner."

"Your parents are here," she said in a hushed tone, as if in warning.

"I know. I'm petrified," he hushed back.

The ice broken, Rory pitched forward ever so slightly, tilting her body towards him. And Logan stood there, ready to be leaned against, should she want to. She grasped his forearm, and his hand came up simultaneously to cup her elbow.

"You came," she said, her words muffled, as she leaned just her forehead on the lapel of his jacket. She felt her tired body, her sad heart, come together and rest against his body. "You didn't have to come."

"I did," he murmured.

"Why?"

"Because." Logan bent his head lower, brushed his cheek lightly against her hair. "Because you love Richard."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lorelai watched her daughter and Logan surreptitiously, half-hidden by the doorway. They were holding onto each other's arm, her forehead on his chest. They were barely touching, and when they did, it was so tentative. But she was amazed at the palpable tenderness between them—everyone in the room must have been aware, though all took pains to appear oblivious. Then Logan said something against Rory's hair, and her body seemed to crumple. They embraced now, fully, her face in the crook of his neck, his hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her waist. He was whispering in her ear, and she was nodding. Then he kissed her cheek.

Lorelai looked away, self-conscious to have been staring at them. As she walked aimlessly among the dwindling crowd, she wondered about Logan and what it might mean to Rory that he was suddenly there, after a year. She was unaware that he had never been truly absent from her daughter's life, unaware that they had been together in New York only two months ago. Unaware that Rory loved him still.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do you…do you want me to stay?" Logan asked tentatively, through her curtain of hair. She was in his arms now. And he held her tightly, wanting to be with her at this time. Selfishly. Wanting to be the one to comfort her and make her happy.

He felt Rory nod against his neck.

"I'll stay for as long as you want," he said.

And she nodded again.

"I love you," he said then, and kissed her cheek.


	8. Sun, With Threat of Rain

**6. Sun, With Threat of Rain**

He saw her before she saw him.

She was receiving newly arrived guests at the foyer, smiling politely, offering her cheek submissively for the customary kiss from strangers. Then pulling away, bumping into a passing waiter and pausing to tell him something, her hand moving rapidly over the tray he held. She was probably giving him instructions about the hors d'oeuvres. She made the waiter smile at some funny remark she might have said. _Lucky guy, that waiter._ Before flitting away again, disappearing from his field of vision. In contrast to her wan skin, her eyes seemed bluer than black, her hair darker than dark. Almost ethereal, always beautiful.

It so relieved him, this 10-second glimpse of her. He felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest, and that he can breathe normally, his heart and lungs functioning properly for the first time in months. For the first time since New York. And Logan Huntzberger, who typically doesn't lose his composure, looked down at the drink that had been thrust in his hand and took a moment to quiet the blood pounding in his head. He was inexplicably nervous. Overwhelmed? And—sad as the occasion was—undeniably happy. _Rory was here, and near._ He will be with her soon enough.

If she still wanted him, that is, after telling her he didn't want her back in his life. He had hurt her terribly.

But so did he hurt. Being with her again in New York was like ripping up a scab that had hardly healed, the pain sharp and surprising yet familiar. And to mend an old, opened wound takes longer than when it was first inflicted.

When she said "I can't" to his proposal, it was easy to believe that Rory didn't love him the way he thought. It was the simplest explanation to why she couldn't include him in her "wide open" future. Feeling every bit the disillusioned love fool, he gathered pictures, letters, coffee mugs, mixed CDs, dog-eared books highlighted with her neon pens, threw them all in a box with the Tiffany-set diamond ring and left it on some Yale graduate's sidewalk alongside a $10 TV and a $5 couch waiting to be sold. (At least he must have made _someone_ happy with that ring.) Then he took a plane to the opposite side of the continent, with nothing—literally nothing—no Rory, no family, nothing but the clothes on his back, a job, and the punctured dream of a home lined with bookshelves and an avocado tree in the backyard.

It was easy enough to start a post-Rory life in Palo Alto, where even the weather was kinder; where women were tanner, blonder, and seemed thankfully to drink less coffee. Eventually, he was able to look a blue-eyed woman in the eye without a twinge in his gut. A while longer, and even his subconscious stopped dreaming of her. _She didn't love him._ That made it easier.

Then there was New York. Fate? He never believed in it, thought he could avoid it—her—altogether. But there was that unexpected encounter in her office (still working at 9 pm, he really should have known). Rory with her pale skin and cerulean eyes, her uncanny mix of wit and vulnerability and quiet strength. And he was lost. He was running away, she had accused. More like fleeing for his life. But she sought him out anyway, even as he held back, and loved him so thoroughly and without reservation in that small, snowed-in hotel room. It was harder to remain angry or unaffected, not when the mere gesture of holding his hand while she slept (dreaming of her guacamole) made him feel…just so complete. So damned_ alive_. He knew that he was irrevocably back to square one. Back to loving Rory Gilmore, if he ever stopped at all. He was back to wanting her in his life, and back to remembering that she had refused to share his life once, and unlikely to do so now.

So he said goodbye. Again. Needing to return to Palo Alto and the numbing, antiseptic sunshine, the kind that helps in the healing of a freshly opened wound.

A discreet cough beside him disturbed him, and he looked up from his unseeing scrutiny of the glass in his hand. It was Lorelai. He stood up immediately.

"Your ice has melted," Lorelai observed, gesturing to his drink.

"Oh. Right. It doesn't matter," he replied. It was good that he held a glass, uncertain as he was about whether he should shake Lorelai's hand. They had hugged each other at the end of their last conversation, but that seemed so far removed now.

"I'm so sorry about Richard," he simply said.

"Thank you. Oh God, should I say 'thank you'?" Lorelai gave a nervous laugh. "I really should have paid more attention to my social etiquette classes back in the day, but no, I was too busy scuffing up my Mary Janes and trying to rile up my mother. So. Case in point," she ended, referring to her lapse to irrelevant conversation. "Um, so, does Rory know you're here?" She asked the question tentatively. _How does one etiquette-ly deal with the daughter's ex-boyfriend who had proposed marriage and been rejected by said daughter?_

"No, I haven't had the chance to approach her. She seems preoccupied."

"Yeah. Well, that's Rory. It makes her physically ill to be idle. Ever the dutiful granddaughter, making the daughter look bad. I should really talk to her about that."

"It's okay. I'll just wait for a good time to...uh, say hello," he said awkwardly.

"How did you hear? Have you and Rory been in touch?"

_In touch?_ The question made Logan realize that Lorelai knew nothing of his and Rory's meeting two months ago. It made sense, otherwise Lorelai probably wouldn't even be talking to him so civilly. And this surprised him—Rory told her mother everything—that he couldn't immediately come up with a reply. Was it significant that she didn't tell Lorelai? Did that mean that it all meant nothing to her after all?

"Oh right, you're a Yalie. It must have been passed on via the owls and coded notes in your secret societies," she said, answering her own question.

"Right. Uh, someone sent me an email," Logan hedged. "And we used pigeons, not owls," he added, responding to her mockery.

"Sorry. We do live in the Hogwarts era you know."

At the lull in conversation, Logan said again, "I'm sorry. I hope you and Emily and Rory are holding up well. If there's anything I can do to…"

"Oh, we'll be okay. Coping. We had some time to prepare ourselves. The doctors weren't very optimistic to begin with." Lorelai looked to the distance, peering into the interior of the house as if searching for someone. "Actually, I think Rory could really use someone to talk to. She hasn't been—I mean she's been staying here with Emily, so I haven't had the chance to really talk to her about all this. And she's been busy, you know? Between her and my mother, I think they've managed to come up with—oh, easily 50 different lists of things to do. And between that and all the commotion with her homecoming and her nomination—do you know about that?--"

Logan nodded automatically.

"In the midst of all the fuss and craziness, there's her grandfather, and well, she might appreciate having a…a…_friend_ see her. I spied her talking to Lane just now, and…" she trailed off, glancing at Logan. She hoped she didn't offend him by referring to him as a friend.

"I understand, Lorelai. And I did come for Rory," he added meaningfully, looking her in the eye.

"Oh." Lorelai wasn't sure about what he meant by that. "Okay, then. Thank you for being here, Logan." She patted his arm uncertainly. "And you should change your drink, there's nothing as bad as a watered-down scotch. Unless it's the tuna and cucumber salad, ugh." She wrinkled her nose as Logan laughed, raising his glass to her as she walked away.

Logan handed his still-full glass to a passing waiter, and sat down again on the stone bench. Elbows on his knees, he pressed his fingers to his forehead and thought about Lorelai's question, fighting off the jetlag seeping through his skull. The truth was that he heard about Richard from Hugo. The truth was that—having been with Rory again, he had forgotten how to forget her. As far-flung as his part of the world was, he couldn't unravel the bond that was forged anew, nor ease the pain that was now the pain of her absence, not the pain of her rejection.

And so he tried to keep a tenuous connection with her by reading what she wrote for Clio. Everyday, he entered her head and read her thoughts, laughed at a funny line, mulled over an opinion he didn't share. Even with articles she hadn't written, he knew if they were edited by her, so familiar with her voice he became. And in her Hillary series—as it was now called in online circles—she seemed to be talking and arguing with him, revealing the questions and doubts in her heart, couched as they were in other women's voices.

It seemed crazy, what he was doing, like having a virtual girlfriend in one of those virtual worlds that Helix had created. (Logan Huntzberger with a _virtual_ girlfriend? He'd never hear the end of it from Finn.) It was crazy that the high point of his day was the 10 minutes he spent reading her once, then twice. Unthinkable that _he_ would say no to proffered dinner dates and nightcaps because he would rather spend the night cooped up with his laptop and the piece she wrote for that day (he'd never hear the end of that from Colin). He slept to the rhythm of her fingers tapping the keyboard; dreamt of Rory chewing on her bottom lip as she wrote. Without her, it was her words that wove a web around his heart and kept it from splintering, kept him sane. _I love you_, she had insisted. Words did matter after all. Because they were all he had.

And then for a week—right about when her OJA nomination was announced—there was nothing on Clio written by Rory Gilmore. He scoured and googled her name, but nothing came up that wasn't days or weeks old. Did she quit, move to another paper? He became restless and distracted at work, his daily routine disrupted. Did she take a leave? Why? _Had she met someone?_ Gone on some extended vacation with him? To Europe? To _Asia?_ He had cursed and stupidly shoved his laptop off his desk at the thought, instinctively enraged at the idea. He stopped seeking her out for a few days, irritated with himself and at her for letting her byline control his life. But two weeks passed, and still nothing. He became increasingly worried. What if she had become sick? What if something had happened to her? He thought it ironic and cruel that he actually had no idea about what was going on in her real, not virtual, life. And he missed and wanted her in a real and physical, not virtual, sense.

His last resistance eroded, he finally called Hugo to ask about Rory. And he was told gravely that Richard was hospitalized for a time, and had now passed away. Two hours later, he was on a plane. He regretted wasting so much time. Whatever doubts and fears and pains he had been harboring were suddenly trivial, inconsequential to his urgent need to see her and make sure she was alright. And if she wasn't, then he hoped that—perhaps—he might make her so.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I love you," he said then, and kissed her cheek.

Rory stiffened in his arms, held herself perfectly still. If she moved…well, if she moved, she might wake up.

"Rory?" _Should he not have said that?_

"Could you—could you please say that again?" she whispered politely against his jaw.

He loosened his hold on her a fraction, enough to touch his forehead to hers and peer into her eyes. "I love you." Then his face slowly broke into a smile, as if in wonder at his own words. He cupped her face. "I never stopped loving you," he said, dropping the briefest—but to Rory, the sweetest—of kisses on her mouth. His admission was strangely liberating, made him feel exhilarated.

"I thought you said that didn't matter," she said, masking her sudden shyness with impudence.

"Yeah. Well. I'm wrong about a lot of things. Wrong about leaving, for one." They spoke in low tones against each other's ear.

Rory was silent for a while, absorbing his regret over that awful, last 10 minutes of their rendezvous in New York. Then, "Yeah. You're wrong about TomKat too, you know. They're still together. And wrong about Steve Carell. He has way better comedic timing than Will Farrel. Wrong about McCain…"

"I can't believe you're bringing all that up now."

"I can't believe you're here."

"How are you?"

"Sad," she said quietly. "But now…now I'm…" She grappled with the vocabulary to give substance to the tingling in her ear, the flush in her face, the weightlessness of her heart. She sidled her nose against his collar, smelled his skin. "Is it wrong to feel this way…is it wrong for me to be happy at a time like this? Is it okay to feel even just a tiny, tiny bit grateful that Grandpa's death brought you here to me?"

"Your grandfather would always want you to be happy," he reasoned.

"How very self-serving of us."

So…you are?" He was still a bit uncertain.

"Yes. I love you."

"Is it wrong to want to kiss you now?"

"Oh." Rory felt a rush of blood pool to her face, and to…other parts of her body. "Maybe I should give Miss Patty her tea first."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He let her go. He watched her hand Miss Patty her tea, and shook his head knowingly as she helplessly flopped on the divan, allowing herself to be pulled in between Miss Patty and Babette. "Hey, sugah!" Babette had insisted, patting the space beside her. "Stay and chat us up a while. Is it true that Obama has a nice tight ass? They don't give us much of a view on TV. JFK had one too, ya' know, that's what's nice about having Presidents so young."

"Well he's not going to be President, Bab," Miss Patty clarified.

Rory pleaded with Logan with her eyes. _Save me!_ she signaled. He gave her a wide smile from across the room, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up the corners of the room. _Damn!_ The anticipation was killing her. "Um, I'm not sure Babette, I haven't really been looking…"

Then Logan turned his head away from her, alerted by something he saw to his left, out in the garden. His father. He motioned to Rory that he was stepping out, and Rory saw that he was angling his head towards Mitchum. Her brow furrowed in worry.

"Now that boyfriend of yours, sweetheart," Miss Patty said conspiratorially amongst them three, following Rory's gaze. "…has a nice tight ass. Is that right? He's still your boyfriend?"

Rory thought about it. "He does have a nice butt, doesn't he? And yes, he's still my boyfriend."

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"Logan."

"Dad." The word sounded foreign to his ears. He had been living on his own, by his own means for the past year, practically emancipated from all ties that bound him to his parents. The word—the thought—hardly came up. They shook hands awkwardly. Formally.

"You look good," Mitchum said, surveying him briefly before sipping his drink. "Nice suit."

"Thanks," Logan responded politely. "You look well, too." He wondered how long they would have to keep up with the pleasantries.

"So, uh, I've been hearing about your company," Mitchum began, clearing his throat. "Our partners are the ones keeping me posted, actually, they make mention of you at some of our meetings…about, oh, 'some new acquisition or partnership that son of yours made', or 'some new program your son's company has come up with'. Of course its their kids and grandkids that are using it, whatever it is." He made a small laugh, nodding his head. "They remember you, you know."

Logan didn't say anything. He thought it typical that other people had to keep his father "posted" about his own son. Thought it quaint that he was apparently a good conversation piece.

"You seem to be doing well," Mitchum concluded.

"I seem to be," Logan agreed. Needing to move on, he asked, "How's Mom?"

"Oh…" Mitchum waved his hand vaguely. "She's around here, somewhere. She knows you're here. You should talk to her." He took another swig from his glass. "She was with Honor for a while some months ago. You've seen the baby?"

"Charlotte," Logan corrected, smiling a little, remembering. "Yeah. She's beautiful." He experienced a small measure of peace at Honor and Josh's. The newness of being an uncle helped to offset the newness of the pain of leaving Rory in New York.

"Hm, I heard, saw the pictures. I suppose I'll meet her at Thanksgiving."

Logan shrugged. _Sure, pencil it in your calendar._

"So you and your sister keep in touch?"

"Yes. We try to."

"Good, good," Mitchum nodded. "That's good. Listen, Logan. This…Richard's passing. Sad, very sad. So sudden. And I uh…it's made me think about some things." He seemed out of his element.

"Like?" Logan prodded.

"Such as…well. I'm not getting any younger myself. Despite all those nasty high-fiber protein drinks your mother insists that I consume every morning at breakfast. So anyway, occasions like this make someone my age think about what's left of our future."

_Oh please,_ Logan thought. _Let him not lapse into some philosophical spiel about life and death. Or some practical spiel about inheritances and heirs._

"So have dinner with us."

"What?" That came as a surprise to Logan.

"There are some things I want to discuss with you, and now isn't the appropriate time or place. So come over the house, say, this Tuesday. You don't have to fly back to California so soon, do you? That's in three days. I'll have the cook—Mina or Nimfa, I can't ever keep track of their names—whip us up a nice juicy rib-eye."

As things with his father go, it was an order, not a request. His first instinct was to refuse, but something nagged at him to accept. To hear what his father had to say to him.

"Fine," he said. "I'll bring Rory with me."

If he was at all taken aback at his son's ease of acceptance, he didn't show it. "Ah, Rory," Mitchum beamed. "What a surprise she's turned out to be. I know of many a newspaper that would love to have her on board now. Of course, bring her along."

Logan bristled at Mitchum's underhanded slight to Rory, and had second thoughts about taking her with him to the lion's den. But he thought it might be the only way he can tolerate spending three hours with his parents. That, and he might not be able to tolerate spending three hours away from her at this point. He spied her lingering by the French windows behind Mitchum, waiting for him.

"So we'll see you and Mom then."

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They found themselves walking between the rosebushes in Richard and Emily's garden. Holding hands and smiling, they looked odd wearing the black and grey of mourning.

"No," Logan was saying, in disbelief. "Again?"

"Yup," Rory chuckled. "Zach's trying not to crow too much about it; he's still pretty much in the doghouse, sympathizing with Lane and massaging her feet and doing extra time with the twins to make up for getting her pregnant again. Not that it's entirely his fault, of course, but no one's about to point that out to Lane."

"I've seen enough of how much of a handful Charlotte is, so I can't imagine having three at almost one go."

"Oh, so you went ahead and visited?" It was as if they had the conversation just yesterday.

"Yeah." They stalled by a bird fountain, near the pool house. "It was good I went. A bit weird, seeing Honor still up at 1 in the morning because Charlotte's awake and she's trying to rock her back to sleep. Or allowing baby spit to mess up her clothes. I think she's trying very hard _not_ to be like our Mother," he smiled. "She might succeed yet."

"Well, there _are_ designer burp bibs you know, so all is not lost. I think being a Mom has become very chic these days, right alongside having that shining career," Rory mused, harking back to her conversation with Lane.

"Speaking of," he finally pulled her in an embrace. "I thought your writing about all that was amazing, Rory. Congratulations on your nomination." He kissed her hair. "See, I knew what I was talking about when I started calling you 'Ace'."

"You read?" Her insides turned to putty—at the thought of him reading her articles, or at being in his arms, she wasn't sure.

"I read. And read. And my understanding of the female sex just jacked up another hundred points, so thank you very much for that."

"My pleasure," Rory said dryly. "Now _you_—I read about Facebook and Helix in _Fortune_ a couple of weeks ago. How Facebook has surpassed every other MySpace-thingy out there, and drawn in the older demographic, because of its collaboration with you. Impressive enough, I guess, for a former school dropout and boat thief." She poked a finger on his chest.

"Dropout? Boat thief? Are you talking about _me?"_

Ignoring his remark, Rory continued, "And I—I was there, right at the historic moment when it was happening, right when the initial meeting with Mark Zuckerberg was being scheduled, the seeds and plans being hatched…" As she read the news, she remembered feeling strangely involved in the enterprise, just because she happened to be around (on the bed, in his clothes) when Logan was talking about the meeting (while naked, over the phone).

Logan laughed, slowly walking towards the pool house, pushing her along as she remained in his arms. "Then I guess congratulations are in order for both of us."

"I agree." They were at the doorway of the pool house, a place that housed many memories for both of them. She started feeling very warm.

"So." Logan peeked in and around the dark interior, and with a mischievous glint in his eye, dragged her inside. He leaned against a wall and held her against him. "I think we deserve _some_ reward for all our hard work," he whispered in her ear.

"I think…" Rory whispered back, "I think we deserve to be happy."

In response, Logan finally bent his head and touched his mouth to hers, which softened and opened easily under his. As he felt her arms snake around his neck, felt her tongue move against his, he thought, _this is pure and unadulterated happiness._ They kissed each other studiously, without rush; breathing the other in, alternately sucking then soothing where teeth might have grazed, where need might have given way to gentleness.

It was nice—more than nice—but soon not enough. Logan's hands began to move on her body, skimming from hips to breasts, wandering in search of skin. Rory broke the haze of the kiss a moment to murmur apologetically, "Sorry, it doesn't have zippers or buttons."

"No problem, Ace," he muttered, sucking on a familiar, sensitive spot on her neck. Supporting her back with one hand, the other trailed the hem of her dress and moved under, caressing the smoothness of thigh. Her breathing quickened in anticipation, and she kissed in restlessness any part of his face and neck that she could reach. She felt his fingers graze between her legs, cupping her lightly. "I missed you so much," Rory blurted out, tugging at his head so she can kiss him again. If not for his hand against her back, she would have dissolved to the floor as his hand pushed her underwear down a fraction, curling against the sensitive skin beneath. His fingers began to mimic the sweeping and probing of his tongue.

Logan groaned inwardly as he felt her wetness, and wondered in a corner of his mind whether he could actually make love to her then and there. Rory sensed his infinitesimal pause, and this brought her back to the reality of his dark suit and her black dress.

"Logan," she murmured, removing his hands reluctantly from her body. "Maybe this isn't the right time or place."

He gave her one last hard kiss. "I know. I'm sorry. Just…just stand there and give me a minute." Breathing hard, Logan pushed her slightly away, but kept her at arm's length. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, holding her hands lightly.

Rory gave him a moment. She found him so beautiful with his eyes shut, obviously trying to control his desire for her. Then she saw that Logan's erection was straining tightly against his pants, and she felt the involuntary heat pool between her legs.

Perhaps it was the two glasses of wine she had an hour ago, or that she was edgy, tired, and had been very lonely. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn't know how long he'd be here or when they would see each other again; everything was so new, they hadn't talked about that. Or maybe because she would always want him, and now she needed to be as close to him as was humanly possible. Whatever it was, she thought it irrelevant to think of what was appropriate or inappropriate. She drew near him again, pressing herself against him and positioning his hands under her buttocks.

"Rory—" Logan groaned at her familiar move, knowing what she wanted him to do. "We have to stop and if we go there, I might not be able to…" But already he obligingly grasped the upper thigh she had raised alongside him, pulling her up a fraction so she can rub against him.

"Shh," Rory whispered, one arm around his neck, the other quickly pulling up her dress. "Please. Just a minute, for just a minute," she murmured, feeling his hardness against the thin cotton of her panties. She raised her knee higher, and urged him to slide lower against the wall, moaning quietly as she felt him press at the right angle against her clit. "Oh God, please, just for five minutes."

No longer slow or measured, she ground herself on his crotch, her face in concentrated pleasure. He began to feel the painful pressure from the restriction of his pants. They both definitely needed their five minutes. He straightened up unsteadily and helped her wrap her legs around him, as he rapidly surveyed the vicinity for anything they might sit on. There was an upholstered chair a few paces away, and he carried her there as she pressed kisses against his neck. He shifted her to straddle his thighs as they sat and fumbled for a moment with his belt, buttons, zipper, boxers. Then Rory half-stood, her hands supporting herself on his shoulders, to allow him to shimmy her panties down her legs and off. As he did he playfully nuzzled her pubis through her dress, eliciting a surprised gasp from her.

She lowered herself against him, both exhaling sharply at the sensation of bare flesh against bare, wet in contact with heat. They were still for a moment, seemingly comfortable to just sit there and kiss each other. After a while Rory started to move restlessly against him, stoking her sensitized flesh against his length. Logan let her do as she wanted, savoring the light friction, knowing she was peaking. He lifted her dress higher to look at her open legs, his head pounding with lust at what her dark, tangled curls half-hid and half-revealed. Her breathing became more audible and labored as she brought herself to near-climax by her own rapid movements against his hand, against his hardness. Before she was completely undone, he lifted her slightly and entered her smoothly, burying deep, thrusting upwards, grasping her hips to slight bruising. They became increasingly frantic, increasingly there, hurtling quietly but urgently to their sought-after reward.

"Well," Logan finally spoke, his words muffled against her chest. "That was, bar none, the best five minutes of my young life."

Rory sat up straighter and regarded him with worried eyes. "That was horrible," she murmured, even as she kissed him briefly on the mouth and brushed his hair off his damp forehead.

Logan raised an eyebrow, running his thumb across her reddened mouth. "I'll admit that the location and the layers of clothing posed some complications." Both of them, amazingly, were still fully clothed. "But I dare say you had the better time of it. Two times better, if I'm not mistaken," he said, grinning.

"You think this is funny, Logan Huntzberger? I just—we just—did this…this, had this—"

"Spontaneous moment of passion? Intense bout of lovemaking? Rabid sex?"

"…had rabid sex—_rabid sex!—_in my grandparents' pool house during my Grandpa's memorial reception!" Rory whispered sternly, lifting off of him and rising shakily to her feet, peering down at the floor in search for her panties.

"I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to hell anyway for my history of misdemeanors," Logan replied, bending to help Rory put one foot, then the other, into her underwear.

"Don't say that, I don't want to go to hell," Rory muttered. "There's something about this pool house," she trailed off, disappearing to the bathroom for a moment. Logan leaned his head back against the seat, becoming aware that he was messy and hot and probably dusty. But completely at peace.

Rory came back bearing towels, and helped him clean himself up. Logan regarded his own and her slightly disheveled appearance; her color was heightened, hair mussed up. And in the comfortable silence, a memory came back that was so remarkably similar, that he couldn't help but laugh a little.

"What," Rory asked, straightening his jacket.

"Nothing. Just remembered something."

"What?" she insisted.

"Another event of your grandparents'. Maybe three—four years ago? Also somewhat inappropriate, definitely more guilt-inducing. But none of the rabid sex though, as we were unfortunately cut short."

She couldn't help reddening at the thought of their first kiss, their first make-out. "Oh. Right. Some precedent that was. Has it…has it really been almost _four_ years?"

"Think so." He sat down again and pulled her sideways on his lap. "I'd say we've aged well. You've turned out to be heaps better than that first I-feel-like-I'm-kissing-a-guy kiss."

"Shut up, or you'll be getting none, whether the guy sort or the…uh, nice sort." Rory fingered the blonde hair over his ears, suddenly contemplative. "Do you…did you ever regret that one time? After everything, after all that's happened between us and in the past year…that maybe I should have just left you alone. When you said you didn't want to date me. That would have saved us both a lot of grief over the years." She wondered quietly.

"Never," Logan whispered fiercely, reining her in closer so her head was against his neck. "I only regret ever being apart from you. Rory, I can no longer imagine my life without you in it. Well, actually I can. And it's a thoroughly miserable one."

"Because I really am that _special_," she replied cheekily, kissing him in a way that told him just how grateful she was for that moment she struck up the nerve to kiss him, four years ago.

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Lorelai was wearing her _Mom_ face. Her brow slightly furrowed, her mouth in a small pout. Luke approached her from behind and squeezed her shoulder. "Hey. What's up?" he asked, in classic brusque way.

"Have you seen Rory?" she asked, surveying the premises, the hallway, for the nth time. People were starting to leave, and Rory's absence in bidding them goodbye was obvious. Knowing Rory, she would have wanted to say goodbye to the DAR ladies, the townspeople, everyone.

"Uh, she's around, isn't she?"

"Well that's it. She was around, she was everywhere, and now she's not."

Luke hesitated, then said, "I saw her last with Logan. They were outside, talking."

"I know." Lorelai tried, but she couldn't keep the caustic tone from her voice. She couldn't put a finger on it, why she felt uneasy and out of sorts. Like she was missing something. "Everyone saw her last with Logan."

"There she is." Luke pointed towards the French windows where Rory appeared, looking as neat and proper as she could in her closed black dress and proper black heels. But also decidedly flushed and smiling and _changed_.

Lorelai started towards her, but Luke held her back, his hand on her forearm. "Lorelai," he said under his breath, in warning. But Lorelai pulled away, single-minded in her need to know what was going on between her daughter and Logan.

"Rory?" She drew near her daughter. Yes, there was definitely something different about her compared to an hour before. Her eyes were brighter.

"Oh, hey Mom!" she greeted with a small smile. "I'm dying for some coffee. You want some? I'm going to the kitchen."

Lorelai ignored her question. "Where have you been? I was looking for you." She kept her voice casual.

"Was I needed? Was Grandma asking for me? I'm sorry, I…I was uh…" She was immediately worried, and berated herself for not preparing a ready reason for her absence.

"Rory, what's going on? You see Logan after a year, and already you're jumping each other? At Dad's _memorial?_ What—is it your grandfather's death? Are you upset, angry, confused? Is this your way of finding some comfort? He's good for this sort of thing, right? I mean, what were you thinking?" Having lost her patience, Lorelai's words came out raw and unedited, in a rush.

Rory felt like she had been slapped, and turned pale. "Wha…what?" Coming from her time with Logan, she felt disoriented at her mother's accusations.

"Aaargh!" Lorelai exclaimed in frustration at herself, smacking her own forehead. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just…" she pulled at Rory and they walked to a corner of the kitchen. She crossed her arms over her chest, and faced her squarely. "Just please tell me what's going on."

Rory became irritated at having to be pulled along and reprimanded like a child. "What is it exactly you want to know Mom?" she whispered hoarsely. "Whether we had sex? Well, we did. In the pool house. But no, it wasn't just sex-for-comfort or whatever it is you're thinking. God, Mom, what an awful thing to say! He came to see me, he came back to me, all the way from California, and we still love each other and we're trying to be together again. Is that what you wanted to know so badly that you've become so upset with me? Why are you so upset?" she asked plaintively.

"I'm not upset," Lorelai denied. There seemed to be a hard ball of something stuck in her chest. _Did that mean she was upset?_ "Maybe I'm just tired. I don't know. So you came to all these wonderful conclusions about still loving each other and having a relationship just in the last hour? Well, that's great."

Rory rubbed her forehead tiredly with her palm. "No, Mom. It wasn't all just in the last hour, okay? It was all in the last year. All this time, I've been loving and missing him. Throughout Barack, and Chicago…despite all the good that has happened in my life since my graduation, despite whatever accomplishments I've had and relationships I've made." She traced the swirls of gray and blue on the marble countertop under her hand, not looking at Lorelai. "I've never been so happy as when I'm with him. We saw each other, you know, in New York two months ago. His company and Clio had a meeting and I…I went to him, and we spent some time together. Then he went back to San Francisco because he—because it was too hard. And now…well, here we are."

Her daughter told her everything, down to what cereal-combo she had for breakfast. Lorelai was gripped with the knowledge that Rory apparently no longer did. Forget the damned cereal or the play-by-play account of her day. She did not tell her about this thing with Logan that seemed to have brought her great sadness, but also such happiness. "You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry. I've been meaning to, but…"

"But what, Rory? I know I'm sounding like some petulant school girl whose best friend neglected to let her in on some big secret. But yeah, I feel hurt. Because I just got the nutshell version of your life in the last year. Because all that you've said—those are things I would have wanted to know about my daughter, who, in fact, I only get to see just twice or thrice a year now. And I'm thinking there's got to be a better reason for why you didn't think to tell me how important Logan was—still is—to you."

"Because," Rory began slowly, her eyes smarting from involuntary tears, "because you told me that I made the right decision. Not to marry him. Because you said someone else would come along, and that I'd know and won't hesitate. Because you told me things would inevitably get better over time. That I wouldn't be hurting forever to be without this one guy. And I believed you."

"Rory," Lorelai moved closer to Rory, grasped her arms. "_You_ made the decision. I never tried to influence you, no matter how hard you tried to wheedle my opinion out of me, remember? And so I'm wrong about those things I said. I'm wrong a lot, you of all people know that."

"That's not the point, Mom," Rory said, finally looking at her mother's eyes, so blue like hers. "It's not just what you said. I know enough about you to understand that you really didn't want me to marry Logan. You didn't want me to move to Palo Alto. That you want bigger things for me—whatever that really means—that you didn't want me to be tied down to a relationship. Those things you don't have to say."

"So you're blaming me?" This was turning out to be a terrible talk. And if she could, Lorelai would have told Rory to go to her room so both of them can be by themselves a moment to _think_.

"No! I'm not blaming you; you're my mom. But as much as my saying no to Logan was my own decision, part of why I did that was because I didn't want to let you down."

"You can never disappoint me. I want you to be happy Rory, more than anything."

"You also want me to have everything you never did. And I did disappoint you, once—enough for you and I to not be on speaking terms for months. And so I just…maybe that's why I had a hard time telling you about Logan and how I've been feeling all this time. It might have disappointed or hurt you to know that maybe—maybe I don't want the things you want for me. Those things we had planned together, since I was 7 and dreamed of becoming Christiane Amanpour. Maybe I'd rather be with him. Or that maybe I don't know what _I_ want, me, after all. I'm only starting to figure it out."

"Oh, Rory." Lorelai could neither deny nor validate nor protest against what her daughter was saying. They stood there in the kitchen, waiters coming and going in their midst, both knowing that some milestone had been reached, some boundary had been breached in their relationship. There was no returning to how things were.

Lorelai finally said, lightly, "Well you may not know what you want, but I think you missed your true calling. You should have been a psychiatrist you know; you've shrunk my head and yours into tiny shriveled balls."

"I'm sorry," Rory said again, as she and Lorelai hugged.

"Do not be. Because here's the thing. I may want certain things for you. I may have ideas about what is best for you. You can't take that away from me, I've earned that after 14 hours of excruciating pain to bring you into this world. But I love you more than anything, hon. Bottom line is that whatever you decide—whatever makes you happy, makes me happy. Is that clear?"

"Okay."

Lorelai released her, flapping the air with her hand. "This is crazy, all these emotions going haywire in the last two weeks." She sniffed loudly. "So. You and Logan, huh?"

"I think so." She tried, but couldn't keep her smile from appearing.

"Any plans? Are you…is he…coming, or going, or…?" Lorelai gestured vaguely. That hard ball of something stuck in her chest—she felt it again.

"Oh. We haven't talked about that yet. So I…we actually don't know."

"Riiight. No time to talk about the serious stuff yet. On the other hand, there was time to…"

Rory blushed. "Mom."

"The _Times_," Lorelai remarked casually. "Have you told him about that?"

"No. Not yet," Rory said hurriedly. "But we will talk."

"Okay. Well I hope you keep me posted." Luke had approached them and laid his hands on Lorelai's shoulders.

"Everything okay here?" he asked carefully. He saw them hug, so he gathered that the worst had passed.

"Oh yeah, you know, just two girls catching up," Lorelai said casually, slinging her arm through Luke's. "You know Rory has a boyfriend again," she intoned in sing-song. Rory rolled her eyeballs, exasperated at her mother.

"Um, I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting but long and drawn-out story, and we promised Miss Patty we'd take her home. I think we have to go Lorelai," Luke said tactfully, kissing Rory's cheek.

Lorelai and Rory hugged again, said their goodbyes and promises to see each other the next day.

As Lorelai and Luke walked out the foyer, Lorelai spied Logan en route to the kitchen to see Rory. And she really didn't know what came over her, what possessed or compelled her to do what she did. Maybe she _was_ upset. Later, she would have regrets. On hindsight, she thought it might have been Emily's blood running through her veins.

She left Luke at the driveway and half-ran to catch up with Logan.

"Logan," she called out, making him halt in his tracks.

He waited for her, surprised and slightly embarrassed. Lorelai looked a bit peeved, and he thought he knew why.

Slightly out of breath, she began talking without preliminaries. "I just thought you should know—because I know Rory hasn't told you, and I'm really not sure whether she'll ever tell you. You should know that _The New York Times_ had offered Rory a staff position, possibly an op-ed column. She's been thinking about leaving Clio. So she applied, and got accepted this time. She's been thrilled about it." She looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped herself. "I thought you should know," she ended.

Lorelai turned and left Logan in the hallway. He was on his way to the kitchen, to Rory. Beyond that, he really wasn't sure where he—where they—would go.


	9. The Leaves Look Greener The Other Side

**7. The Leaves Look Greener From The Other Side**

_Pro: Dream job._

_Con: Long distance relationship. _

_But still, a _relationship_. (There must be some stock in the trite but oft-quoted saying, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Right?) But also—a job is still just a job. (Or should I say career? Is there a difference between 'job' and 'career'?) What if it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Stupid Rory. Doesn't love—at least this kind—come just once in a lifetime as well? Isn't he your once-in-a-lifetime?_

The overhead light was more than just some ornate, slightly eerie chandelier, I realized. At 1:43 in the morning, by the light of the moon, the view from the bed in my mother's former room makes it appear quite nice. Like silver delicate tulips, housing the bulbs inside.

_Pro: Lunch with Thomas Friedman. Or Maureen Dowd. In the best burger joint in the Western world._

_Con: No lunches, or any meals for that matter. (Thanksgiving?) No sleeping with; no sex whenever we want. (Damn, does this mean we'll have to go back to text sex?)_

The curtains were pink, and frilly. So was the bedspread; it had roses. A silent row of Russian Matryoshka dolls stared at me from their line on the French antique dresser at the foot of the bed. This was a girl-child's room. He looked incongruous in it, sleeping bare-chested, the pink blanket pulled up to barely cover the waistband of his boxers. I felt incongruous in it. I was no longer a girl-child.

Why am I even thinking about this? Why am I even losing any sleep over this? Shouldn't the answer be obvious? I've begun to feel too old for my Pro-Con lists. My life is not so columnar, so black-and-white. Or pink.

We spent an idyllic afternoon in my Grandpa's library. In his will, he left all his books—two roomfuls of them—to me. (I do love him.) He said for me to take what my heart desired, and donate the rest to our alma mater's library. Logan and I took to the task wholeheartedly, with boxes bearing the labels "Yale" and "Mine". We were derailed many a time by the irresistible pull of Grandpa's first editions, and ended up lying on the floor or couch, reliving a chapter here, tossing a trivial literary question there. (And I confess, I smelled the pages. I'll probably end up taking the whole lot of them, no apologies to Yale.) I was engrossed in Woolf, and he in Capote, when his cell phone rang, jarring my head from his lap. It was Palo Alto calling. I think it burst our bubble a bit, bringing us back to the non-fiction of our present, separately-lived lives. He excused himself to take the call outside, and ended up excusing himself for a couple of hours because he had to go in search of an internet connection to conduct some business he had left behind.

And tonight, when he came back to me, the air between us was that much heavier with unspoken words. We're good at this, Logan and I. For a time, I suffered through not telling him that I couldn't be a not-girlfriend girl. For a time, he suffered through not telling me that he was falling in love with me. And for a time, we suffered through not talking about London, and how the prospect of separation pained us. We're good at keeping the really important stuff at bay.

I haven't told him about the _Times_, for instance. Not the offer of a regular staff position. Not their acceptance letter, where they told me that they liked the spare prose and truthfulness of the pieces I submitted in my portfolio. My ego had experienced a Sally Field moment, more so than from my OJA nomination: _The New York Times likes me, they really like me._ But I couldn't bring myself to tell him—yet. Because. Because here I am, awake at 2 in the morning, thinking about it and wanting it a little.

I wish I could just broach the subject. Say to him "Okay Logan, this is nice, but what now?", or, "So when are you flying back—and guess what, I have an offer from the _Times_". Be natural about it. But here's what I realized, as I watched him sleep next to me: I'm quite afraid of what he would say. Afraid that he would want me to be with him in Palo Alto. Afraid that he won't. Afraid I'm not ready, either way. Afraid of being together but apart, that a long-distance relationship seems the path of least resistance, given Helix, Clio, and now, the _Times_.

What happened to the lessons of Grandpa's death? Lessons on time, and love. And what of my questions to Hillary, the pipe dream of "having it all"? With Logan in my bed the past three days, and my _Times_ acceptance letter in my purse, it was easier to believe that maybe—just maybe—it _was_ possible to have it all. Some version of it.

I kind of miss my potted avocado plant. I've taken it for granted, entrusting it to someone else for safekeeping, for care. Now, I wonder whether it's getting enough sun. Perhaps seeing it would set me straight. Meanwhile, I vacillate.

My head is a mess. But at this minute at least, I do know that I'm in the right place. I turned to lie on my left side, my arms easily and automatically encircling his neck, his shoulders, settling his head comfortably against my chest. I kissed his bedhead, brushed my mouth ever so lightly on the bridge of his nose, before closing my eyes and trying to fall asleep.

Logan. _Pro. Pro. Pro._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She couldn't sleep. Logan knew, sensed she was awake; her breathing was uneven beside him. And though his eyelids remained shut, in the quiet of the bedroom, his brain was trying to decipher her reasons for why she still hadn't told him about the _Times_. He was willing to bet Richard's entire collection of first editions that she was conjuring up a Pro-Con list at that very moment. He knew her well. Or did he still?

Where would he be placed in that Pro-Con list? His mind blipped back to a year before, perusing the list Rory had made (at around this same hour) on whether she should go to Providence or wait and see about the _Times_ in New York.

_Logan???_, her list said.

He felt a pang in his chest. Perhaps she remained just as uncertain about where to place him now. Especially since he was up against no less than the _The New York Times_. She's long wanted a byline in that newspaper. She read every single page, blocking off an hour in her morning for the Sunday edition. She knew the names of the staff writers by heart, probably their personal lives to boot. That much he knew about her.

And so he continued to bide his time. But there wasn't much more of it left. Already he was being called back to work; his sudden departure left many meetings and projects hanging.

He wished he could just broach the subject. Say to her "Rory, what's next?". Or, "So when are you quitting Clio, moving to New York?" Be almost flippant about it. But here's what he knew, as he listened to her breathing restlessly beside him: He was afraid of what she would say. Afraid that she wouldn't want to be with him in Palo Alto. Afraid that he just might have to give up Helix, and start again in New York. Afraid that a long-distance relationship—precisely what he didn't want, why he asked her to marry him—now seems the path of least resistance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory turned to face him and put her arms around him, kissing his head then face lightly. In turn, Logan pulled her closer to him, slipping a knee between her thighs and kissing a random spot on her half-exposed breast.

Words were difficult. But this wasn't. This was like breathing.

Suspended in that space between sleep and wakefulness, they lay on their sides pressed against each other. She drowsily smoothed her hand through his hair, down the crevice of his spine, to graze the curve of his buttocks under his boxers, and up again. He put his mouth on the line between her breasts, nuzzled and kissed lightly. She moved her hand between their bodies, groping under the blanket to pull his boxers down and grasp him. Lazily rubbing her thumb over and around the head, she felt him harden under the play of her fingers. Meanwhile, he had pulled down her low-cut pajama top to expose a nipple, feeling it harden against the languid flicking of his tongue.

_Sleepy, dreamy love is the best kind_, Rory thought, sinking into a mindless haze, her hips bucking involuntarily against him as he sucked at length on her breast. She continued to squeeze him in firm, steady rhythm, only speeding up a fraction when his fingers began tracing patterns against her open crotch, her knee raised against his hip. Logan's hand finally slipped under the cotton to slide his fingers against her and into her, one slow digit at a time. Rory began to shudder, her moans low against his forehead. She tugged at her underwear, grasped his shoulder as he shifted up against her body to enter her. Their sinuous movements, their audible breathing, punctuated the stillness of air, the dead of night.

"I want this," she whispered against his cheek.

"Mm."

"Sleeping to you, waking to you—to this. I want this everyday of my life." Rory's voice trailed off sleepily.

Logan's eyes flew open. He shifted on his back and Rory settled her head on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, tracing her hipbone absent-mindedly with his thumb. _To hell with it,_ he finally thought.

"Rory?" He murmured hoarsely in the dark. "Can we…I mean, will you—"

He looked down at her, and stopped at mid-sentence. Rory had fallen asleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"A tummy ache. A tummy ache always works."

"Maybe we should say, 'stomach ache', make it sound more believable and less like a second-grader trying to get out of gym class," Logan murmured distractedly, staring at the Velasquez on the wall. He had very nearly forgotten how the house looked.

"Although Shira might feel offended, and hate me more than usual for suggesting that her steak did not agree with me."

"She would feel more offended at you thinking that what you ate was 'her' steak, that she actually cooked dinner. She'd probably fire the current cook, though, and leave one more poor well-meaning immigrant soul unemployed. Did crying buckets at _Babel_ not teach you anything?"

"How would you know I watched _Babel_, let alone cried through it?" Rory sighed. "I did, though. Poor woman. Okay, fine. Scrap the stomach ache."

"On the other hand, the cook might actually feel grateful." He took Rory's hand and led her out of the hallway to the couch in the living room.

"Logan, you're not helping. We'll be seeing your parents in about 20 seconds and we still have no agreed-upon getaway strategy!" she hissed, unhappily flopping on the richly-upholstered couch.

"You doubt me?" He placed a hand to his chest, looking at her woundedly. "I am Logan Huntzberger, second to none in escaping the clutches of Mitchum and Shira Huntzberger in the most desperate of times. I have 26 years of experience under my belt. Stop worrying and just follow my lead."

"Follow your lead, huh? Look where that got me. Here, back at the bedrock of all my journalistic self-doubts." But she settled back more comfortably in her seat, albeit fidgeting with Logan's fingers on her lap.

Logan kissed the back of her hand. "You can't seriously still be worrying about what Mitchum thinks of you. Not after the nomination, or _The T_—" He stopped himself, forgetting momentarily that Rory _still_ hadn't told him. "Um, he probably wishes _you_ were the Huntzberger at this point. Instead of me."

"I knew it. The air in this house seriously wreaks havoc on our self-esteem. We really must get away from here as soon as possible." Logan laughed, as Rory added more seriously, "Logan, I am so proud of you. You made it, on your own. Without a Black card. Who would have thought you'd survive?"

"Gee, thanks. I do feel a warm glow everytime I get my credit card bill in the mail."

"You've made a name for yourself, and you're doing what you love. Not many people your age can claim that."

"Seriously, Rory. Do you think those are things that actually matter to my parents? That I 'made it'—as you say—but as far away from them as I could possibly be?"

"No. But I said that to make you feel better anyway." She smiled at him.

Logan looked at her, at her dark hair pulled back from her face; at her simple blue-gray dress that set off her incredible eyes. "See, this is why I brought you along," he said, bending his head to hers and kissing her gently. "You make all things bearable."

"Aw, _just_ bearable. How sweet of you." Rory put her hand to his cheek and kissed him back, as Logan leaned into her.

"Do you really think he'll ask you to come back and work in your company?" she murmured against his mouth.

Logan sighed and touched his forehead to hers. "And you had to bring that up? Now?"

"Yes. Because they'll be walking in on us in about 10 seconds and I really don't want to see Shira's face walking in on us making out on her couch, desecrating her Monet." She gestured to the painting that faced them. It was very romantic, actually. Monet was a good painter to make-out to, she thought irrelevantly, unlike, say, Dali.

"You sure? Mom's face will be priceless."

"Lo-gan." She shifted away from him and smoothed out her skirt. "I wonder how he'll take it, you saying no. I can't imagine why he'd think you would agree, although I do feel a bit sorry for him. Grandpa's passing might have made him think about his and your future, the future of the company, as you suspect. How there's really no one to take the helm after him."

Logan appeared to listen to her prattle, but wore a vacant look in his eye. "No, I don't know how he'll take it," he muttered vaguely. He was watching the doorway, and took Rory's hand as he saw his parents enter. "They're here," he said, standing up to greet them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The situation at dinner took a bizarre turn.

"More of the baby roast potatoes, Rory? Emily had told me they were your favorite accompaniment to steak." Shira, wearing a distinctly Cheshire-cat smile, passed the coveted dish to Rory.

"Uh, thanks Shira. They are delicious. Everything is delicious." Indeed, it was. So much for the stomach ache, Rory thought, giving Logan a meaningful sidelong glance. She just might have one from overeating.

"It's about time we put a little more meat onto those lovely bones," Shira continued, cutting into her meal. "You've lost some weight since I saw you last. Because you've been working so hard, I suppose, on your writing. I've heard so much about it; your articles are the talk of the entire DAR!" Shira laughed, then sombered almost immediately. "Or perhaps it's because of your dear, dear, grandfather." Shira reached across the white, pristine linen to awkwardly grasp at Rory's hand. "I'm so sorry, my dear, about Richard. Although I must give you my compliments; you handled the service and the reception so beautifully. How lucky Emily is to have you with her at this difficult time."

Rory nudged Logan's foot under the table in a gesture that meant, _Where the hell is your real mother?_ Any moment now, Rory half-expected her to sing accolades to her prowess as future wife, in a complete reversal of the dinner three years past.

In response, Logan turned to Rory with a little smirk, in a gesture that read, _Suck it up, Ace._

"How is Emily?" Mitchum asked.

"My grandmother is well," Rory began, happy to latch on to a topic other than herself. "She's planning a trip to Europe, visit some of her and Grandpa's old haunts."

"Is that a good idea?" Mitchum wondered with some concern.

Rory thought about it. "I think so. She means to remember, not forget. Renewing memories, going back to their roots, so to speak."

Mitchum cleared his throat. "Speaking of roots…"

Logan stiffened, his mood shifting slightly, indiscernible to everyone but Rory. She touched his hand under the table.

Mitchum wiped his mouth with his napkin and turned in his chair to face Logan squarely. "I mentioned during Richard's memorial that his situation—his death—had me thinking about some things. I've been thinking about Huntzberger Publishing, specifically, and how, when I'm gone—"

"Oh, please, Mitchum," Shira interrupted, bringing out a slim, gold, cigarette case. "Must you be so blunt, and…and _morbid_?"

Mitchum was about to give a retort, but was interrupted anew, by Logan.

"Yes. Save the spiel, Dad. I'll do it."

Until that moment, Rory never thought she might experience the expression, _you might have heard a pin drop. _There was surprised, utter silence after Logan's pronouncement. Then Mitchum and Logan began talking again. To Rory, it was like listening to a foreign language; her brain had become slow. She was aware of removing her hand from Logan's though.

"You'll do it." Mitchum repeated after the bout of silence. "Do you know what I was even going to ask?"

"You want me to go back and work for you at Huntzberger Publishing."

"Well yes, actually. Although I was expecting that you would need more time to think about it. I do know you got yourself some job in San Francisco."

Some job. _Some job?_ Rory seethed. He has a life, damn it. "Yes, Logan," she bit out, calmly. "Maybe you should think about this a little more."

"Well I've made up _my_ mind," Logan replied, looking directly at Rory. "But I'm going to do this on one condition, Dad," he continued, still facing her.

Mitchum grunted sardonically. "Right. A reactivation of your credit?"

"Not really, no. Just that you put me in our New York office. Traveling, sure, whatever. But I want to live in New York. Give me that, and…and I'll get to work." _Be your puppet all over again,_ Logan thought with growing qualms, made worse by watching Rory's obviously confused expression.

Mitchum looked from Logan's determined face, to Rory's alarmed one. Something was going on between these two. But whatever it was, it seemed to him that Rory had done it again. Helped him—albeit inadvertently—set his son on his path.

"Is that all? Then I'll see to that. New York office it is." Mitchum leaned back on his chair with a satisfied smile on his face, before leaning forward and shaking a pointed finger at Logan. "Meanwhile, we have to discuss some of our newspapers down south at the soonest time; I'll be needing you to evaluate and downsize some of them. I'll call a board meeting day after tomorrow, reintroduce you and—"

"Sorry, Dad." He finally broke his gaze from Rory's and looked down at his barely-eaten steak. "I have to fly back to Palo Alto for a few days, make things official with Helix."

"Well," Shira breathed, raising her glass of wine. "Before you men get down to business, I'd say this warrants a toast, does it not? Rory?"

At this, Rory pushed her chair back with a loud scrape, pushing against the table and jarring the silverware in the process. She had to get away. "Shira, Mitchum, thank you for the…the steak and potatoes. Thank you for your hospitality. But I'm afraid I might have eaten too much. I have a tummy—a stomach ache. Please excuse me, I'm sorry."

She walked quickly out of the dining room, out to the foyer, Logan following somewhere behind her. She really did have a stomach ache.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rory." It was about the sixth time he said her name in Emily's cavernous SUV. And still she didn't speak, continuing to pull at the sweater covering her arms and looking out the window. The tinted windows were black, making it difficult to see.

He finally killed the engine at the Gilmore driveway. Neither made any move to open the door. Perhaps the car was as good and neutral a place as any to begin talking in earnest about their future. It was cold, though, and dark.

"I thought it would make you happy," Logan said simply.

"Happy?" Rory finally spoke softly. "You love working in Helix, Logan. And you detest working at Mitchum's beck and call. How can I be happy, when I can't see how you can be?"

"I'll be with you, and that's enough. I did it for you--"

"Don't say that!" she interrupted. "Don't say that. Don't make me feel responsible for something you would probably regret."

"You're not responsible. This is my decision."

"_Your_ decision." Rory shook her head and finally looked at Logan. "Right. Since you did it to be with me anyway, don't you think it should have been _our_ decision? I would have appreciated not being caught so off guard. Perhaps Shira already knew, no wonder she was being nice to me," she muttered under her breath.

"Oh, right. Like your _Times_ offer should have been something we would talk about, since it had some bearing on how our relationship would go."

"Lorelai told you," she said needlessly, her stomach in knots at the thought of her mother's interference.

"And you wouldn't tell me. I can figure out why; I know you want it Rory. And you couldn't figure out a way to let me down easy, a way to tell me you couldn't be with me in Palo Alto. So I'm making it easier for you." He said this gently, but with a catch in his throat. Sometimes, his knowledge of Rory pained him. He needed to spare himself from the greater pain of being told that she would rather be in New York than with him.

"Why I couldn't tell you, is because I'm still trying to figure out what I want." Rory rubbed her eyes, which were starting to tear up in frustration. "Why does everyone presume to know what I want? Neither you nor my mother gets to decide that for me." She touched his arm. "Please, Logan. This doesn't make it any easier for me; it makes things more difficult. I can't bear taking a job at the _Times_ at your expense."

"It's what people in relationships do, Rory. They do this all the time, to make things work, to make the other person happy. Look at Doyle, with Paris. It's called sacrificing? Something you weren't—and it seems still not—ready to do."

Rory was stunned at the accusation, and perhaps, more than a little guilt-ridden. To sacrifice is to fly in the face of nearly every principle in her Pro-Con rule book.

"Is that what this is about? My inability to 'sacrifice'? Then, please. Do not make any sacrifices on my account," she said bitterly. "You are not Doyle, and I am not Paris. I am also not worth it, selfish as I am." She turned to open her door.

"No, I'm sorry! Rory, I didn't mean it the way it sounded." He grasped Rory's forearm to pull her back in, and with his hand under her chin, forced her to look at him. "What I mean to say is, I will do what is needed to be with you. I love you Rory. And you matter more to me than my father, or Huntzberger Publishing, or Helix. And if you'll be happy at the _Times_, in New York, then so be it."

"I love you too, Logan. Which is why this decision of yours is hard for me to just accept. I can't just stand by and let you do this. These last few days, you've been telling me about your friends and co-workers—your partners, Mike and Christine, and Sandra the receptionist who's like a mother to you except that she misses no opportunity to pinch your ass, and the…the spicy kebabs in your favorite restaurant downtown, and, and your upcoming negotiations with Nintendo or Sony or—I forgot—on some online gaming venture." It was too dark to see, but she tasted the salt of her tears. She had become so emotional, so nearly incoherent, but she can barely understand why she was so upset. "You can't just leave all that behind and go back—move backwards—to a life you were less than happy with. Not even for me, or _especially_ not for me."

Logan kissed her cheek and drew her into an embrace. "Then what would you have me do? What would you have us do, Rory?" he whispered against her ear. _Love each other from a distance?_ The question, the possibility, remained unspoken but hovered heavily in the interior of the car.

"Maybe we can…maybe…I don't know." She burrowed her head in his neck, rubbed the soft cashmere of his sweater against her cheek for comfort.

"Maybe we can sleep. For now. And talk again in the morning, okay?"

Rory nodded. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For not talking to you about the _Times_. For not appreciating your gesture the way I probably should, and stirring up an argument instead."

"Well, you're Rory. I don't think I should have expected anything simple to come out of this. My bad."

"Hey, was that some underhanded insult?"

"Are you trying to get into yet another debate with me?"

"I don't have the energy. All this has made me very hungry. You can appease me with vanilla ice-cream."

Logan smiled at the gradual return of the light-hearted banter. A sign, perhaps, that everything will be okay. "Whatever you want, Ace."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A better sign, perhaps, was the urgency with which Rory made love to Logan that night. The way she kissed him and held him close. Tightly, longingly, deeply. Like she didn't know when she would be able to kiss him again. Like she was trying to tell him something, but couldn't.

Logan woke up at dawn, feeling a distinct chill come over him. He shivered, goosebumps forming along his arms as he groggily scrounged around the floor beside the bed for his shirt. "Ace?" he called out gruffly, in the direction of the bathroom. "Come back here; it's cold," he complained. He flopped back on the bed, rolling to Rory's side to hug her pillow for warmth. As he did, his hand grasped a piece of paper that had been lying on her side of the bed. He forced his eyes open as he fingered the note, studying it like it was a strange, foreign object. He looked at it for long minutes, until his mind had been branded by its particular shade of cream and the clean, cursive handwriting in black ink that was barely discernible from the back. Rory. So neat and deliberate, even when she was running away.

What if he didn't open the folded piece of paper? Would that leave him with an untarnished memory of these precious five days? Would it make a difference if he read it or not? He sighed and finally sat up, running his hand through his hair. He forgot about his missing shirt, the chill, his state of undress. It didn't matter; the cold had settled in his heart.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the second time, he faced the crap shack alone. Not to seek approval or permission. Perhaps an answer, before he went on his way back to the other side of the continent. There was nothing left for him here. Holding Rory's letter in his hand, he slowly went up the pebbled drive to the poorly maintained porch steps. For a moment, he wondered whether Lorelai still lived there. In any case, he didn't know where else to go.

The front door swung open before he even had the chance to ring the bell. _Mothers,_ he thought. _Uncanny sixth sense._

Lorelai's face was grim as she considered Logan. His shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped. He looked defeated. He wordlessly held up his hand, the one bearing Rory's letter. Lorelai simply gestured to him to wait out in the porch, and returned a minute later with the same cream-colored stationery, another neatly-written note from her daughter.

"So I gather you don't know where she is, either." Logan and Lorelai sat side by side on the porch steps.

"No." Lorelai folded her arms around her shins. "But I bet your letter doesn't have the words 'how', 'do', 'could', 'you', and 'that', juxtaposed nicely and accusingly in one sentence, if that's any comfort."

Logan remained silent, studying the chipping blue paint near his shoe. _No comfort to be had._

"Can I be honest with you?" Lorelai broached in her candid way. "That other reason you came to me a year ago? The truth is that I really didn't want you and Rory to get married. I didn't want you taking Rory with you to Palo Alto. I didn't want you getting together and becoming so serious so young, so soon. I wanted her to experience many other things in life. I grew up too soon myself."

"I kind of figured," Logan shrugged. "It takes more than pie a la mode, after all. But I respect you for letting me propose anyway, and allowing Rory to make her own decision."

"See, that's the thing. I don't know if I did."

Logan looked at her abruptly. "Do you mean you—"

"No, I didn't say anything directly. But she is my daughter and best friend after all. I couldn't _not_ influence her. Which brings me to this," she explained, shaking the piece of paper in front of her. "This is Rory's way of telling me, 'I've had it. I've had it with you, Mom, and Stars Hollow, and Grandma and Grandpa, and the rest of the well-meaning world out there who wish the best for me.'"

"Apparently, she's had it with me, too."

"Oh, I don't know about that Logan. She loves you. But I think she needs to be away from all of us in order for her to make a decision about what she wants. She's had a very eventful, but also rough year. I think she needs time and space to just process everything." They sat in companionable silence, both contemplating the truth that is Rory.

"That must be hard for you. Not knowing where she is, or what she's thinking." He can afford to be sympathetic towards Lorelai, despite his own sense of loss.

"I haven't really known what she's thinking or feeling after all, not in the last year. She's really a grown woman now…" Lorelai laughed a little. "Oh yeah, at 24, finally cutting off the apron strings. It's a bitter pill to swallow for any mother, but I think, finally, I'm ready. It's about time, I guess." She looked at Logan then, crouched on her step with his elbows on his knees. "But _you_. I can't imagine how hard it is for you, not knowing where she is or what she's thinking."

Logan bent his head, buried his face in his forearms. The posture was so unlike the Logan Huntzberger she thought she knew. Lorelai tentatively placed a hand on his hunched shoulder, and leaned her chin against it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_My dearest Logan,_

_Remember when, at that LDB event I covered for the paper, you tried very hard to convince me to jump from a seven-story scaffold with you? And a year ago at my graduation dinner, you also tried to convince me to take the proverbial leap of faith with you. I agreed to the first, and it remains one of the very best experiences of my life. I declined to the second, and perhaps missed out on another life-defining adventure. _

_You always seem to know what you want; you are so confident and certain. That's one of the things I've always admired about you. Whereas I—I am kind of slow. Always needing some convincing, having to think things through and count the possible costs and alternatives. (If only things are as simple as Seth's test potatoes. Though perhaps they are.) _

_I am sorry for being this way, for always being ten steps behind you. But I no longer want you to take the first step—or jump—this time. I do not want you to go back to working for your father. Please do not do that for me. _

_If I stay, I don't know if I'll be able to convince you not to go to New York. Because that is how certain you are. And if I stay, I don't know if I'll be able to convince myself that the Times is really where I should be, instead of where others think I should be. Because that's how uncertain I still am._

_You asked me, 'What would you have us do?' In my heart, I already know the answer. But it might take me a while to make it happen. I won't ask you to wait for me. But I ask that you believe always that I love you._

_Rory_

_P.S. I took your shirt. Sorry._

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**Author's Note:** Do you hate me more now than at the end of Chapter 5? In my mind, both Rory and Logan still have many fears and doubts and questions. Not about each other's love, but about how far the other will go for that love, and how truly ready each one is to shape their future life around the other. How do they factor each other in? All you need to know, dear reader, is all will be resolved in the next two chapters (where the avocado will make a particularly strong comeback). Thank you for continuing to read and for all the generous feedback. :)


	10. Tree

**8. Tree**

I leaned my arms against the railing and looked out to the expanse of sloping foothills; beyond it was the craggy mountain range, halfway lost in mist. The view was wide, so wide, I felt my lungs expanding just taking it all in. The foothills baked in the mid-morning sun, appearing to scorch in various shades of brown—tannish, chocolatey-ish, sienna. This barren palette was punctuated by clusters of dark green, nearly black foliage. Trees, probably. Redwood? I don't know, never actually having seen a redwood before. From this distance, they looked very small, like bushes.

This landscape is unlike anything I've ever seen in New England, where autumn meant orange, yellow, maple gold. Quite unlike anything I've ever seen in this country, period. It was amazing.

The Santa Cruz mountains. And over there, the San Mateo bridge. _Santa Cruz, San Mateo._ I rolled the names around in my mouth. _Palo Alto._ They seemed foreign, and as all foreign things, heralded something new or unexpected. My heart was beating rapidly, pumped up in adrenaline, with the excitement and uncertainty of it all.

I was on the viewing deck of the Hoover Tower. Somewhere 250 feet below me, students dotted the Oval. Reading, lying on their backs soaking in the sun, playing frisbee. That was a more familiar sight. Being back in University grounds felt easy, like fitting into a worn-out, comfy glove. I couldn't wait to check out the Cecil Green library.

"Are you a student here, or are you just visiting?"

The voice to my left broke my reverie, and I saw a tall, wiry, bespectacled man leaning casually against the wall beside me. There was a backpack on the floor by his feet. He looked like a student.

"I, uh…I've been going around the campus. First time," I said vaguely, rubbing my palms against my bare arms. And then I said with more conviction, "But yes, I'm a student here. So no…not just visiting. I hope to stay longer." _I hope to stay. For as long as he does._

"Not too long, though," the man laughed. "I've been in Stanford for six years; they're about ready to boot me out." He stared at me, and I looked slightly away. "So it was nice watching someone who seemed to be seeing all this for the first time." He gestured to the view in front of us. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes it is."

"Do you want to go grab a cup of---"

Before he can finish the question, I gave him a serene smile and drifted past him towards the steps to the top of the tower. According to my visitor's map, the carillon of 48 bells on top of Hoover tower was cast in Belgium. On the largest bell is inscribed, "For Peace Alone Do I Ring."

_For peace alone do I ring._ Later today, or tomorrow—very soon—I'll be seeing Logan. The prospect stilled my heart and quieted my questions at last. In my mind, I heard the bells ringing for me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There you go, Miss…" The woman with the short cap of curly hair looked at the form in her hand. "…Gilmore," she finished, handing me my receipt and registration form. "Looks like you're all set for the Fall term."

"Thank you," I replied, shifting the heavy mailbag slung across my torso. It was crammed with my laptop and freshly-purchased supplies: yellow and green highlighters, pens, notebook paper, two spiral-bound folders of required readings for a couple of my courses. New term, new beginning. I always looked forward to this.

"Oh, and have you checked out our graduate housing yet? They're usually filled up by this time, but it's worth trying anyway. Some students withdraw or find some other place to stay."

"Oh, um…okay, I'll do that." I hadn't looked into any housing at all, whether on or off-campus. Maybe I should; I shouldn't be so presumptious after all. My stomach clenched at the thought of having to look for my own accommodations. Coming all the way here, and possibly having to live on my own after all. I mentally added "Housing" to my lengthening list of things to do. As I stepped out of McClatchy Hall, I ran down my registration form, for the nth time.

**Department of Communication**

**Graduate Program in Journalism**

**Lorelai Leigh Gilmore**

**210-76-4902**

**Autumn Quarter 2007**

**Comm 273 – Public Issues Reporting I (4)**

**Comm 225 – Perspectives on American Journalism (4)**

**Comm 216 – Journalism Law (4)**

**Comm 291 – Graduate Journalism Seminar (1)**

Everything was in place. Now if only they had a "Getting Your Boyfriend Back After Walking Out On Him (While He Slept) 101", then my head would be, too. I felt light-headed; my sense of peace on top of Hoover Tower all but shattering once I found myself back on the ground, down to the patchy green-brown earth. It didn't help that I was suffering from the toxic combination of caffeine withdrawal and jetlag. Nor have I found the time to scope out the good coffee places in and around campus. Sixteen hours in the West coast, and I was feeling distinctly un-acclimatized.

I paused to sit under a shadowy archway of a sandstone building, and fished out my phone from my jeans pocket. I was sorely tempted to call Lorelai. Her mindless histrionics over my 8-week absence would be a welcome distraction, a reprieve from the anxiety wrought by my all-important mission. She would probably dog me about stalking Tiger Woods if she found out I was in Stanford. Or she might be stunned enough into silence to find out I had turned down the _Times_ and gone back to school. While it might be worthwhile just hearing dead air at the other end of a call to my mother, I desisted, stuffing my phone back in my pocket and lying on my bag on the cool floor.

I promised myself (promised him, in my mind) that Logan would be the first person to know of my current whereabouts, where I've finally decided to plant myself. I owe him that.

Besides, I wasn't quite ready to be interrogated by Mom. How it was that I turned my back on my childhood dream, resigned from Clio, and went to Stanford. (Grandpa would be turning over his grave at my treachery of Yale, I imagine, if I hadn't spent a whole month in Fez paying him tribute.) As far away as possible from everything and everyone I've known and loved, the road ahead was suddenly, startlingly clear to me. But that's the kind of revelation that is difficult to put in words; in the end, it's just something you _know_.

The endless campaign trail, the snow in New York; Lane's pregnant belly, and Grandpa's deathbed; Hillary Clinton, and my stomach ache from Mitchum's steak. My avocado plant. _Every thought, every memory, every feeling, every dream led me to Logan._ I knew that to be true. But to anyone else, it seems trite perhaps. Too poetic. Not substantial enough a reason for me to shift gears in my journalism career. Hugo wouldn't buy it, and the _Times_ certainly wouldn't either, which is why I told both that I still needed to hone my craft and figure out what kind of writer I wanted to be, what niche I wanted to occupy before settling down to any one paper. That was true, too. I knew from my experience in Obama's campaign that I wasn't cut out to be a political journalist, whereas my foray into feature and opinion writing still left me with a vague sense of discontent, and an OJA nomination I felt I didn't fully deserve. Were those substantial enough reasons for my change in direction? For taking that other path in the fork in the road? I don't know. I expect many—my mother included—would be surprised, or disapprove.

But here's another revelation: I no longer care—or perhaps that's too strong a word—it no longer matters as much to me what others think. My only hope, as I lay on the floor on one of Stanford's hallowed halls, is that my presence is substantial enough proof to the one person whose opinion mattered the most. _Every thought, every memory, every feeling, every dream led me back to you._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Here we go," Rory whispered, facing the frosted glass doors that simply bore the name HELIX.

"Well go on, now is not the time to wilt. You've never looked so green, so alive!" Rory muttered again, in encouragement.

A couple of faceless people passed her, a quizzical look in their eyes as they looked askance at the potted avocado she held. Impatient, they jostled ahead of her and pushed the door open themselves. As they did so, Rory caught a glimpse of the interior—the red couch in what looked to be a receiving area, a dirty-blonde woman wearing an earpiece, her loud voice fading away as the door once again swung shut. And Logan—was that him in the blue shirt that had caught her eye for the most fleeting of milliseconds?

She entered the premises, the pot held firmly against her stomach, the wayward leaves of the avocado brushing against her face. And she simply stood in her spot for several moments, slightly agog at being smack dab in the middle of one of Silicon Valley's fastest-rising companies. (Earlier, she was thrilled enough to find out that Macintosh was just a stone's—apple's?—throw away.) Instead of offices, there were open carrels, each dominated by a huge computer workstation. People were leaning casually against or hanging their heads and arms over the neighboring cubicles chatting with their co-workers. No one was dressed more formally than a button-down with rolled-up sleeves; nearly everyone wore jeans. Until she saw it, Rory would never have imagined Logan working in such a place. But apparently he did, and she realized with a pang how little she still knew of his life in the last year-and-a-half.

"Hey there," a blonde man in a blue t-shirt walked up to her. _Not Logan after all_, she thought with a mixture of relief and disappointment. "You looking for someone?" He wore a winsome smile, the kind that was meant to send many a young intern or receptionist's heart a-flutter.

"Yes. Is…is Logan Huntzberger around?"

Her question was greeted with a quiet guffaw behind the receptionist's desk, and the man rolled his eyes heavenward. "Why do I even bother to ask?" he muttered. "Um, yes, he's around. Sandy, she's all yours," he called out to the dirty-blonde receptionist. "I'm Mike, by the way, and if ever you need…"

"Give it a rest, Mike," Sandy drawled, her chin in her hand.

"Oh, Mike!" Rory exclaimed in pleasant surprise. At Mike's raised eyebrows, she struggled to explain. "I've heard a lot about you…"

Mike shot a look at Sandy, as if to say, _See?_ "And you are…?"

"Rory. Rory Gilmore."

"Nice to meet you. I hope to see a lot more of you around here. Although if Logan has anything to do with it, I doubt it. No woman that comes around here looking for him—and that's plenty—is ever seen a second time. It's a mystery. I suspect he zaps them into our virtual world and keeps them all to himself." He winks, hardly noticing Rory's fallen face. "It has distorted the gender balance here in Palo Alto. You've been duly warned—so I do hope to see _you_ again," he said, loping away.

Rory couldn't tell what it was that made her chest tighten painfully—the fact that Logan apparently had not mentioned her name at all to his partner and good friend, or the fact that women come around looking for him often enough for it to be a part of office culture, office humor. Even Sandy seemed bored by it all.

"Honey, is that plant for Logan? How—original. You want me to go leave it on his desk for ya? I'm afraid he's out for the rest of the afternoon for a series of meetings." She looked—almost sincerely—apologetic, her thick eyeliner slightly runny.

"Oh. No, it…it's okay." She was feeling increasingly crestfallen by the second. She placed the pot on Sandy's desk, ignoring her affronted look. Rory took a breath, as if to steel herself, and asked, "May I please have his home address, then?"

Sandy knew that was coming next. She could read and predict these women who fawn all over Logan to a 98 percent certainty. A request for some alternative or secret phone number should follow. "Sorry dear, I'm not permitted to give you that information."

_Damn_. It was now or never. She couldn't bear to live another day in this city, breathing the same air as he, without seeing him. "Would that be the office policy?"

"That would be the Logan policy," Sandy said matter-of-factly.

"The _Logan_ policy?"

Sandy looked at the Rory-person with growing pity. She obviously expected something else entirely. Perhaps Logan Huntzberger himself coming out to greet her with open arms, professing his undying love and fidelity and all that crap. _Another one bites the dust,_ she thought, quoting her beloved Freddie Mercury. Although this one seemed different, not quite "another one". She was as beautiful as the rest of them, but she looked like she didn't know it, or was unaffected by it. She wore jeans and flats, a pretty white blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; it was the luscious brown color that Sandy had been dying to have hers dyed in for the last 25 years (upsettingly, it always ended up a dirty-blonde). So maybe it was the hair—she felt an affinity to it. And the eyes. They nagged at her for some reason.

"He just doesn't like any woman coming to his place, honey," Sandy said with greater gentleness. "It applies to all, so don't take it personally. In fact, the sooner you don't take things personally, the better for you and whatever _thing_ you have with him. He's just…he's just the way he is." She spoke as if she possessed the font of knowledge on Logan.

_What Logan and I have…does that qualify as a "thing"?_ Rory simply looked at Sandy, her blue eyes wide. She felt the familiar burning in her throat which she recognized as jealousy, and valiantly tried to douse it with tiny trickles of relief that Logan still kept some measure of himself apart from _them_. Even if it was just his apartment.

"But I'm not just any wom…" she stammered to say, under her breath.

"Mother of God!" Sandy exclaimed unexpectedly, slapping her palm on her desk and nudging the potted plant a fraction with the force. "You, Are, The, One!" she wagged a finger at Rory accusingly, triumphantly.

From just _anyone_, to the _one_, Rory was thoroughly confused at Sandy's reaction to her. "Whatever. Listen, I'll come back first thing tomorrow morning." She hefted her plant back in her arms. "Please don't tell him I dropped by. Please."

"You're the one," Sandy said again, stopping her from leaving. "The one that broke him. Broke his heart." She said it plainly.

And it was true. "Yes," Rory said simply. "That would be me."

"Well then. I guess that changes things a bit. Now I'm laying my job on the line here, missy…" She grabbed a post-it and scribbled an address. "I figure you have something to say to him, hm? Here you go, before I change my mind."

Rory clasped the tiny square in her fingers, crumpling it a bit. "How did you know…me?" she asked. _Might there be a photograph of me stashed somewhere in his desk?_

"Your eyes, dear. And I've seen that look before, ya know? His eyes have that look, too." She shrugged her shoulders. "Like you've both been kinda sad for a long time."

Rory unconsciously put her fingers to the corner of her eye, wonderingly. Then she said, "He's told me a lot about you, too." Sandy smiled at that, looking thrilled. _And I would prefer that you desist from pinching his butt, from here on out_, she added inwardly

As she pushed the door open to exit, Sandy called out to Rory, "Maybe that plant will do the trick, honey."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_424 Seneca Street, 424 Seneca Street._ I kept the address in mind, like a mantra, as I drove down tree-lined streets, passing old-style lamposts and children playing on front lawns. My hands were clammy, and stiff from gripping the steering wheel too hard. _Damned GPS. _I should have taken the bus.I had taken several wrong turns. Getting lost, on top of my headache, my busy morning at Stanford, and the unpleasant discoveries at Helix, have reduced my nerves to a cold mass of spaghetti noodles. I'm just about ready to lose it. Not the best frame of mind to be in to see Logan.

428…426…_424_. I parallel-parked along the curb. Across the street was a cream-colored bungalow. The roof was reddish-orange, and shingled; some crawling vine had covered it in parts and spilled over the front, ending in a hanging tangle of yellow and white flowers that almost kissed the overgrown grass and weeds. Compared to its neighbors, it looked relatively lifeless, though quaint, in a way, like some house in the woods that found its way to suburbia. A yellow rubber ball was lodged beside the mailbox, all but forgotten. A _house_. I wasn't sure what I expected—an apartment building, a bachelor pad, a loft downtown perhaps. Not a house, in a street where children played.

"There it is," I murmured to my avocado plant on the passenger seat beside me, as if in introduction. As I sat in wait in the dipping afternoon sunlight, I suddenly felt overcome with fatigue, and along with it, doubt. I bent my arms and head over the steering wheel. _I won't ask you to wait for me,_ I had written to him. And perhaps he didn't. He might have had a line of women (heck, if Mike and Sandy were to be believed, a whole town of them). He might have grown tired of my vacillation—swinging back and forth and back again. He might have thought, mistakenly (_very_ mistakenly), that I left because I didn't want to be with him. He might have come to hate me, might not have understood. He might have moved on, finally.

And here I was _again_, trying to get back in his life.

This was the end of the road for me. There was no place else I should be. I was certain of it, of myself. But I don't know how it is for Logan.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and checked my face in the rearview mirror. The original plan was to be bold and brave, face him squarely, me and my plant. But now it seemed brash and naïve, like that time in New York. _You never thought to ask whether I want you back in mine._ I faltered. Perhaps I should give him some time.

As I crossed the street, I wondered whether I should leave it by the front door. Instinctively, though, I knew he hardly used it; it looked permanently closed off. Pretty though, it had a small stained glass circle embedded in the dark wood. Besides, in the flurry of weeds and overhanging flowers, my avocado would literally be lost.

So I shuffled around the house, holding my avocado plant against my hip and opening the small gate that led to the back. _Just leave the pot by the back door, then leave. Sleep. Tomorrow is another day._ And if he doesn't discover it any time soon, well then I'll just pray to the gods of guacamole to preserve it and surrender my plant (and my heart) to the elements. Let nature take its course.

But what I saw around the bend made me stop short, and nearly made me drop my pot.

Like the front, Logan's backyard was unkempt and ill-maintained, littered with dried leaves and bramble from seasons past. But it did contain one thing that stood sturdily and quietly amidst the brown mulch and the graying sky.

An avocado tree.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Logan picked up the yellow rubber ball from the ground, as he opened his mailbox to gather his mail. _Charlie would be looking for this,_ he thought, throwing it easily onto the neighboring lawn to his right. He tiredly scratched the nape of his neck as he surveyed his own front lawn, making a mental note to talk to Brian Shanahan this weekend. Maybe he'll do it for twenty—maybe for free—if Logan gives him those long-promised tips on wooing Amber Stuart as a date for the end-of-summer neighborhood barbecue. Or maybe he should just go ahead and buy a damned lawn mower. Or maybe he should just move. He was too busy, too alone, to be keeping house.

Shutting the front door behind him, Logan dropped his laptop bag and strode through the dim living room straight to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator to grab a beer, but not before pausing to touch the lone item posted on the refrigerator door with a magnet. A postcard from Fez, dated five weeks old. _Dearest Logan, did you know that Fez is the largest car-free urban center in the world?_ He took a swig of beer, looking blankly out the window over the sink. _Tomorrow, I go to Casablanca. My mother would never forgive me if I don't._ He would have to check his email that night; Sandy had left a message on his cell that some people had dropped by the office to see him. _I think about you everyday, every minute of everyday._ He supposed he should have some dinner, even though he wasn't hungry._ Love always, Rory._

A slight movement in his backyard caught the corner of his eye, and his brain automatically switched to vigilant mode. The sun had just set, casting the air in grayish twilight. And there, underneath the shadow of his avocado tree, something appeared to be huddled. Some animal?

He went out the back and down the two steps, bending to pick up a dried branch to shoo the animal away with. Foxes and raccoons created a mess around these parts (not that he really cared, but his neighbors did). But as he walked cautiously closer, it dawned on him that it wasn't an animal. A human figure lying in slumber, her knees drawn up to her chest, her fingers grasping her sweater close.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Rory was here._ In his backyard. Under the avocado tree. Asleep.

There was something faintly absurd in the idea, dreamlike. He was sitting on the ground beside her sleeping form, gently hitting the back of his head against the trunk of the tree. He turned to quietly observe her, this woman who eluded him the past eight or so weeks, eluded him the past year-and-a-half. She lay on her right side, her right fist curled under her cheek. Her mouth was slightly open, and she breathed evenly, deeply. He was loathe to disturb what looked like very deep sleep. Jetlag, he supposed. Her feet touched his leg, and of their own accord, his hands took both her feet and lay them on his lap. The exposed skin was cold, and he rubbed it gently with his palms. He traced a faint bluish-green vein that snaked across one foot.

He didn't know how he felt. But something that had been bottled within him seemed to be struggling to get out—some semblance of hope? The beginnings of happy? _No, not yet,_ he fought back, breathing hard. _Not until you hear what she's come all the way here to say._

Unwittingly, the ministrations of his hands on her feet warmed Rory, roused her enough to drowsy wakefulness. Her eyelids were heavy, but opened a fraction to the blurry view of Logan sitting up beside her, contemplating her feet on his lap. His blonde hair was messy, as usual, ruffled by wind and hand. The relief of seeing him made her tear up, and she drank him in from under half-closed lids.

"Logan?" she finally croaked, her voice hoarse from sleep.

Logan looked at her as she sat up; dried leaves were stuck to her hair, her sweater. She looked as if she belonged here, all this time, under her tree. "Rory."

The exchange of names seemed to break their mutual dreamlike state. Forgetting her well-rehearsed introduction, Rory instinctively knelt closer to Logan, touching her cheek to his and slipping one hand against his neck. "I'm so sorry. Logan, I'm so sorry for all the hurt I've caused you," she murmured. She kissed his cheek, his nose, his chin. "I missed you so much," she said. She was crying quietly.

It seemed weak, Logan thought, as he gathered Rory on his lap and held her tightly against his chest. To give in again and again; to love her still all this time. But with her in his arms he felt strong. Like he could risk his heart again and again for her.

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"So. What brings you to my part of the world?" He dropped one last kiss on her upturned mouth. It had become darker still, but they seemed to glow with their own light. If only they could do away with words, as they did away with light.

_You_, Rory thought automatically. Instead, she blurted out, "School."

"School?"

"I entered a grad program in journalism."

"So you turned down the _Times_." Logan whistled low. "Wow. That's major, coming from you. Did you quit Clio, too?"

"Yes."

"Because…you love…school," he mocked her a little, but felt more than a little crushed at the reason she cited for being in Palo Alto.

"Right, I do. Love school." Since she had stupidly mentioned it first, she plowed ahead with it. "I thought it a good time to step back and explore what kind of writer I can best become. Try to be better, you know, now that I've had a year of 'real-world' experience under my belt." She awkwardly played with the buttons on his shirt.

"But Stanford? There are better programs out there. Columbia, for instance. Or Northwestern. Either of those two are right up your alley, geographically speaking." _Damn it. School? _

"Yeah, well. Stanford is Daniel Pearl's alma mater, though. In keeping with the world's obsession with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt."

"Rory," Logan sighed tiredly, pushing her slightly away from him so her butt slid from his lap and landed on the ground. "Look. It's good that you seem to have figured out your next step, career-wise. But why are you here, in my house, or in Stanford, when you could have gone someplace else? So you've given up the _Times_ and your other options to move all the way to the other side of the continent. That's huge, and I need you to just answer me—what are you doing? Do _I_ have anything at all to do with this?" he finally asked plaintively, giving her a sidelong glance, before looking away again. "And I can do without all the quippy remarks or the cryptic notes and postcards, because I've had a very long da…_year_."

Duly chastised, Rory moved so she sat beside him shoulder to shoulder. She tried to recall the things she had thought about, things she needed to tell him, but had wanted to childishly entrust her avocado plant to say in her behalf.

"Logan," she began, "when you asked me to marry you a year ago, I told you that…that my future was wide open, and that marrying you would make it less so. See, I thought that was the important thing—to have many options and have all these unknown possibilities to explore. I thought the more choices I had, the more successful I'd be, the luckier I am. Kind of like Paris—who was accepted in Harvard and Yale and Princeton. I envied her. And if I moved with you here…I was afraid that would limit my options. And all these people who wanted me to have all these options—my mom, my grandparents—I was afraid I would let them down, too."

Logan remained silent, reliving Rory's graduation day, looking up through the now black leaves that shielded the view of the sky.

"And then at some point—when I realized I was utterly miserable without you—I thought or I wanted to believe I can have both. Have you and my career; have it all. How archaic after all, to think that a woman in this day and age would have to sacrifice one for the other. I can pursue my dreams, can't I, and be in a relationship with you at the same time. That would have been perfect. That would have been real Hillary-like." Rory shook her head, as if the idea was still stuck, somehow, and she needed to shake it off. "And it seemed possible, Logan, everytime we were together, it seemed easy. But what happened at your parents' house—what you were ready to do for me, I wasn't ready to accept, after all. You were making a sacrifice, and I didn't think either of us were supposed to."

She cleared her throat, swiped at the tears that were falling fast again. She must get through this without snivelling too much. "So I was wrong on both counts, Logan. What I've learned—I think I've learned that there is a big difference between having many choices and making a choice. We have to choose, all the time; everything has its trade-off. And so there's really no such thing as 'having it all'. What we end up having are the consequences of the choices we make. That's what we have to live with, what would make us happy or not."

Rory shifted, sitting on her heels and turning half-way to face Logan's profile. "So. I've made the choice now, finally. I've chosen what is essential in my life, essential to my happiness and the happiness of the one I love. And you know, the truth is that it really _has_ limited my options—but necessarily so—and I accept that. I cannot work in New York—no; I cannot be in Chicago, or anywhere else for that matter. I can no longer think about furthering my career, without factoring you in. You may call it 'sacrifice', but that seems so negative, doesn't it? Like I'm giving up something precious. When really, I've chosen the most precious thing of all."

She had unconsciously been gathering up dried leaves in her fist, plucking them out in bits and shreds as she said her piece, until there was one left in her hand.

"Rory—" Logan said, finally looking at her. He might have been crying too, she thought, though it was too dark to see. "I don't know what to say."

"As usual," Rory said lightly, as Logan pulled her closely in his embrace again. "My profundity has rendered you speechless."

"I love you," he simply said against her hair. "Thank you for being here."

"That will do for now." Rory smiled against his full and earnest kiss, their cheeks wet with wonder at the gift of love and time, bringing them full-circle to where they would have begun the year before.

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After a while, Logan spoke. "So grad school. Was that ever part of some plan? A Rory-in-Five-Years To Do list?"

"Yeah, sometime, somewhere, I would have gone back to school. I think this is a good time. You're the reason I'm in Stanford, though—don't think I just happened to be here because of that. Being accepted in the Journ program was lucky; my application was late as it is. It's the icing on the cake, the…just the tip of the icing even, the wick—the dripping wax of the birthday candle." She nuzzled the side his neck, leaving a trail of kisses from ear to collarbone.

"You just compared Stanford to dripping candle wax. I'm increasingly amazed at your eloquence."

"Well, it would take more to impress me. More than the fact that Sandra Day O' Connor, Scott Turow, or Fred Savage are among its stellar alumni."

"_Wonder Years'_ Fred Savage? You mean he's actually graduated? From _college_? Damn, I feel old."

"Although Logan," Rory gripped the front his shirt excitedly, and Logan groaned inwardly at the sudden loss of her arms around his neck. "You should see my subjects. I have Digital Journalism next term, and something called Democracy, the Press, and Public Opinion. And I have to admit the Bing Wing of the Green library is _amazing_. Huge daylight, incredible views of Santa Cruz all around…and the books! I could camp out in those cozy chairs all day, buried under the books."

"Do they smell as good as the books in Yale, though?" Logan asked seriously.

Rory ignored him, continuing to regale him with trivial factoids she had discovered about Stanford and Palo Alto since arriving the previous day, which were much more than he had learned from being a resident for the last year-and-a-half. (The Grateful Dead and Condoleeza Rice, for instance, both hail from Palo Alto. Who knew? Only Rory.)

"Hey Ace," Logan spoke at a lull in conversation, during which they had both managed to lie on the ground, languidly seeking and touching skin revealed in the spaces between buttons, under the untucked hems of shirts. "I think it's time we go inside. It does get colder. Even in California."

Rory caught her breath as the pads of Logan's fingers reached the underside of her breast. "I kind of like it here," she said dreamily, looking up at the canopy of leaves. "Is this house—is this…_the_ tree? My tree?"

"I don't know about it being _your_ tree," Logan replied, raising himself on an elbow and looking down at her blue eyes, her hair the color of the leaves spread out around her. "I kind of like guacamole."

"No you don't."

"No I don't," he amended sheepishly. "But yes, this was to be—is—our house." _Our house._ The hair on his arms stood on end.

"But Logan," Rory protested. "It must be costing you a fortune to pay for this!" For another trivial thing she knew about Palo Alto was the astronomical cost of housing.

"Yeah. But I had signed the contract and paid the downpayment even before I went back to New Haven to propose to you. Stupid, but there it is. And I just…lived with it." He shrugged. "In the beginning, when I was so angry, living here fed that anger and served to remind me of the folly of loving too much, hoping too much."

Rory touched his cheek. "It would have been cheaper to just call Finn," she quipped.

"Then later on, after New York…it just reminded me of you. And I needed that." He took her hand and kissed the palm. "But yeah, I've been thinking of moving. Just a while ago, actually, when I thought my front yard and backyard had been overrun by weeds and wild animals."

"Wild animals, huh."

"Yup. I was about to beat one off with a stick. I'm glad I didn't—"

"Beat it with a stick? Me too, that would've been a pain."

"I'm glad I didn't move," he continued, looking over his shoulder at the house. "Do you like it?"

"It…uh, shows promise," Rory answered feebly, and gasped as Logan started poking at the ticklish spots at her waist. "I love it!" she corrected, "It has character!"

"Character???" Logan demanded, doubling his efforts. "'Character' is Finn's euphemism for ugly!"

"Stop! I like the front door. And that little gate leading here to the back. The overgrown flowers spilling from the roof. And this tree," she finished, gasping for breath. "But Logan, you don't even have a bed."

"We don't need a bed," he leered at her wolfishly, bending to kiss her ear.

"I mean, it's empty. You don't have furniture," she explained. "Oh wait—you do…there's a refrigerator, a TV, a stereo system—if you'd consider all that furniture—and a mattress. Which doesn't count as a bed."

"Actually, the Japanese refer to it as a futon, which does count as a bed. Were you snooping in the house?" he accused.

"I was only looking through the windows!" she protested. "I was intrigued, considering that the person who lives here, in such spartan accommodations, once had a walk-in closet that was larger and more tastefully furnished than my entire bedroom."

"Then you'd better get to work, little woman." He stood up, brushed off the dirt from his clothes, and bent to carry Rory in his arms. "I want you to cook, clean, and buy furniture," he wobbled slightly under her weight, before gaining his balance and striding to the back door. "Um, after your classes and papers and writing your Pulitzer prize-winning articles of course…"

"I'm game, but be careful what you ask for, or you've just committed yourself to a lifetime of frozen pizza," Rory replied, clutching at Logan's neck. "The movers are supposed to arrive in a couple of days with my things. And about five boxes of Grandpa's books," she added ruefully. "We have room?"

"Why do you think I didn't get any furniture?" Logan reasoned, as he carried Rory over the threshold.

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Rory's avocado plant remained at the foot of the back porch steps, ignored until the next morning. Contrary to Sandy's prediction, it wasn't quite the one that did the trick after all. But as a consequence of its discovery, Logan was embarrasingly late for work, and Rory overslept an extra hour from all the pleasant exertion.

Logan had stepped out the backyard to check on the chores he would have Brian Shanahan do that weekend. He surveyed the fallen leaves and overgrown weeds, then had noticed the potted plant at the bottom of the steps. There was a note that had been stuck in the dirt a fraction.

The note had given him a nasty sense of déjà vu, and though he felt stupid doing it, he went back to the bedroom to make sure. And there she was, on the phone with Lorelai, twisted into the blanket like a cocoon, a bare leg and arm sticking out as she blew him a kiss. Reassured, he had gone out again, sat on the steps and read her note.

_What I've learned from growing a plant is that it doesn't need much. Just a few essentials that are necessary to sustain its life: a vigilant eye, a constant hand, and earth, water, sun, air. And what I know from loving you and being loved by you is how important you are in my life, as necessary as the earth, water, sun, air._

_I grew this avocado plant in memory of what might have been our tree, our house, our life together. I'm giving it to you, a year-and-a-half later, that it might serve not just as a memory but possibly—if you accept it, accept me—the real beginning of a life together. We might never have that avocado tree, for I can't take anything back. But we're hoping, this avocado plant and I, that you might still have room in your heart for me to be planted, to grow, to love you._

_Rory_

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**Author's Note:** There is now just a brief Postlude that is yet to be written and posted. But I'm hoping this chapter is as satisfying enough an ending as one could hope for for Rory and Logan. I know this is the ending I can live and be happy with :). Let me know what you think. It was a pleasure writing; thank you so much for reading.


	11. Postlude

**Postlude**

The potted avocado plant was an unobtrusive addition to the once-empty living room in the once-empty house on 424 Seneca Street, Palo Alto.

It seemed natural to place it there, next to the navy blue couch and white-paneled window, where it could bask in the sunlight that brightened up the room every morning. Where either of them would see it on their way out and remember to water it. (The problem, in fact, is it had been overwatered many a time.) It seemed natural to keep it—there was no need for discussion—even with the larger, fruit-bearing avocado tree already in the backyard. It was as natural and right, in fact, as her moving in, books, boxes, frozen dinners, and all. There was no need for discussion about that either. It was meant to be—and to him, always has been—_their_ house after all. Their tree. (And now, their potted plant.)

Like a sentry, green and true, it quietly observed their comings and goings.

The morning ritual of coffee, cereal, and the _Chronicle_ (unless they overslept, in which case there's the shared shower and the mad rush to the commute). She gets dibs on the editorial and entertainment sections; he on the front and business. There's a lot of debate here over politics and election hubbub, over just how critical or funny is the latest Judd Apatow movie. At times, there's a lot of shush-ing. She's prone to reading out loud when she's particulary psyched, and it annoys him sometimes. And there are days when they do manage to read the same page over each other's shoulders (with no untoward casualties).

It favored the late afternoons or evenings, when the cooler air was like a balm on its leaves. When he comes home, leaning against the doorway in wonder, warming at the sight of her curled up with her laptop on their couch with books scattered at her feet. She greets him with her open smile and open arms; _hello, work dork!,_ she says. And the tired work dork happily burrows his nose in her hair, dragging the work dork lover to their futon unmindful of her feeble protests. Other nights, she arrives from her evening class to the smell of him cooking or reheating some amazing thing he had picked up from a Thai or Meditteranean restaurant on the way home. (He hardly cooked, of course, before her. She still didn't, period.) She rants about her evil professor, tearful over the scathing comments on her paper (was she not the once-editor of the YDN? an OJA nominee?), but unfailingly soothed by his foot massage, his indulgent sympathy, the absent-minded kiss on her cheek as he takes out the garbage. And still on other nights, awake and cramming for an article, she whiles away her time studying him as he sleeps (studying how the fine blonde hair on his arms glints under her lamplight), content in knowing that she can sleep to him, awaken to him, and make love to him, whether at 1 or 5 in the morning.

But they had their moments; it wasn't always so sunny. Like that weekend she spent sulking over some Julia and Sherry on his voicemail, incensed that there were women who failed to "get the memo" that he is no longer available for any dinner or any movie on any night. Or that botched birthday dinner, when he became unreasonably enraged over a Jeff who had called her during the appetizers (_He went out with you long enough to know your birthday?,_ he demanded to know). Only to creep back in the other's arms that night, learning to forgive however way they tried to assuage their loneliness in the absence of the other. (There is something particularly satisfying about make-up sex, moreover). Every now and then, he still finds himself feeling apologetic. Surreptitiously watching her as she reads the _Times _online, he tries to decipher any hint of regret in the blue of her eye. And wonders whether she could be happier.

But to the people who came and went and saw their avocado tree, it was apparent that she—and he—couldn't be any happier. Lorelai and Luke (who had gotten over the initial awkwardness after eating his lobster); Honor and Josh and Charlotte (who loved to play in the shade of the tree as her mother shopped at the Stanford Mall); Brian Shanahan (who mowed their lawn for free, for her); grad school cohorts and Helix friends (who appreciated his collection of California wines, if not her take-out ordering skills). Full of love and her, the house on 424 Seneca Street was empty no more.

So it went. And the houseplant thrived.

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There they were. Shading my eyes against the glare of summer sun, I frantically waved to the sea of faces on the Main Quad. Logan's head was bright; he looked serious, but blew me a kiss. Grandma was seated next to him, fanning herself with her programme and no doubt complaining about the California weather. Then Dad, Mom, and Luke. I couldn't help but laugh—I couldn't wait to hear from Lorelai the exquisite torture of being squashed between her ex-husband and now-husband.

A breeze blew through the line of graduates, making the shadowy arches of the Inner Quad awash in the fluttering red and black and gold of our academic regalia. Only two years in Stanford, compared to four in Yale, yet my heart was bursting with sentimentality and anticipation. Maybe it was because—unlike my Yale graduation—this time I knew what I wanted, and felt right about the narrowed-down (rather than wide-open) path ahead of me. The Communications Department had accepted my application to teach; _The San Francisco Chronicle_ had published my Master's project and was considering me as a freelance contributor.

Or maybe it was because—unlike my Yale graduation—there wasn't that sense of shakiness or uncertainty about my relationship with Logan. Whatever happens next, I felt that he and I were in a safe place, as certain as any Pro in a pro-con list (not that I still made any). I looked out to him again in the Quad. He was looking away, looking distracted. Probably sensing my own nerves about walking up on stage.

The familiar strains of the graduation march chimed in, and my line began to inch forward. Adjusting my cap and hood, it occurred to me that another reason for my nostalgia was the fact that a _Garrity_, and not a _Gellar_, stood in front of me. Struggling medical student that she still is, Paris has nothing on my two diplomas. (And though not in the Ivy League, Stanford ain't bad at all). I would have appreciated the opportunity to gloat.

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"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" Lorelai exclaimed, engulfing Rory in a hug and jumping up and down a little. "I have no idea what that means—this internship thingy—but everyone had stood up and cheered and everything when your name was announced and I figured that it must be another feather to add to the Rory cap! It's so full of feathers you're about to cluck like a chicken!"

"You're the one clucking like some mother hen," Emily said disapprovingly. "Really, some dignity, Lorelai." She turned to Rory who now enthusiastically embraced her. "Your grandfather is proud of you, so proud."

"I hope so, Grandma," Rory croaked. She looked meaningfully at Logan, who smiled and stood patiently aside while her family took turns congratulating her.

"So, Ror, what _is_ this internship about? The name sounds familiar—" Christopher said, squeezing his daughter's shoulder.

"Daniel Pearl is the Wall Street Journalist who was kidnapped and beheaded in Pakistan," Luke clarified, clearing his throat. "Apparently a Stanford alumnus."

"Oh. Who knew you kept up with the news. Is the WSJ now available at your diner?" Christopher said lightly.

"Oh yeah, who knew?" Lorelai interrupted, intercepting the daggers being hurled from Luke's eyes. "I only know from watching Angelina Jolie in _A Mighty Heart._ Most depressing. And the curly wig, very unbecoming."

"The Daniel Pearl Journalism Internship means that Rory will be writing for the Wall Street Journal for a year," Logan said, finally coming to Rory and placing his arm around her waist. "She didn't even want to apply for it, but I thought she was a shoo-in so I convinced her. And see, I'm right as always," he said, pecking her cheek with a kiss.

"My daughter is much too modest. She gets it from me you know," Lorelai said.

"But…but does this mean Rory will be going to Pakistan? Where this Mr. Pearl was _beheaded_?" Emily looked slightly horrified.

"No, Grandma!" Rory reassured, laughing. "I would be based in New York, and then uh…I'm not sure…" her voice trailed off uncertainly as she looked at Logan with worried eyes.

"Er, I think I see the refreshments over there," Luke said, motioning to the other side of the lawn. "Emily, Lorelai, didn't you want a drink?" With Christopher, he herded the two women away from Rory and Logan, who looked like they needed a moment to themselves.

Logan took Rory's hand and led her to a quiet alcove, away from the clusters of families posing for photographs, from the caps still being thrown up in the air, here and there.

"Congratulations, Ace," he said simply, holding her tightly and kissing her soundly. Rory clutched the lapels of his jacket, the rowdy cacophony of voices fading, as he swept his tongue inside her opened mouth.

"Oh, wow," Rory murmured dazedly, moments later. "Maybe later…maybe there's more where that came from?" _Damn these thick academic robes,_ she thought, pressing against him.

"Are you happy?" Logan suddenly asked her. Seriously, unexpectedly. Rory once again caught the uneasy look in his eye. And she thought she knew what it was about.

She put her hand to his cheek. "Yes. But when I agreed to apply for the internship, we also agreed that we would talk about it if I was accepted. You know I wouldn't go to New York, or anywhere else if you couldn't find—"

"Rory," Logan interrupted. "You go, and I'll go. It's my turn to make the move, follow you this time. And the good thing about working in a place like Helix is that it's so flexible. We work in a virtual world, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, but what if I'm assigned to—"

"To the Middle East, or China, or Timbuktu, there's no place left in the world which the Internet hasn't touched. Mike would appreciate my efforts to expand; we're not quite the fledgling start-up anymore." He embraced her again, and said against her ear, "And it's a good time for you to be out there again, be in WSJ. You could always teach later."

"I do want to be out there. But our house, and...Logan, it's a huge move. Are you sure you're okay with it?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's time to get out of the salt mines of Silicon Valley. I'm kinda looking forward to the change. I'll--we'll--figure it out," he reassured, kissing her temple.

"I love you so much," Rory said, almost unnecessarily. Logan said nothing, but Rory could feel his heart still thudding against her chest. This internship wasn't what was getting him so anxious.

"Logan?" she asked, pulling away a fraction. "What's wrong?"

Logan blew out air, stuffed his hands in his pockets. He looked out to the distance, as if trying to remember something, some rehearsed speech he had forgotten. Or perhaps some other graduation he had attended, three-and-a-half years ago. He didn't think he would feel so petrified, but he was.

"Rory," he began, his brown eyes looking at her blue. "I haven't got any grand gestures or speeches this time. But even so, I wanted to give it another go." He wordlessly took his right hand out of his pocket, and held his palm open to reveal a diamond ring. "Please say you'll spend the rest of your life with me."

Rory was stunned; she was caught off guard. She stared at the ring. It was different from the last one. She sorted out her feelings. They were different from before. And as Logan's words began to sink in, she found herself crying.

He seemed to have made her upset, and he panicked, closing his fist again around the ring. "Rory, I'm sorry if this isn't the right time, it's too much—"

"You thought you'd give it 'another go'?" Rory repeated incredulously, half-laughing through her tears. She took his fist and placed her hand possessively over it, placing their joined hands over her heart. "I have been waiting all this time; two years I've been wondering and hoping. And I thought you'd never ask me again!"

Logan felt a wave of relief, smiling at her indignation. He stepped closer to her, touched his forehead to hers. "Because your answer would have been…?"

"Yes, many times, yes. Wherever in the world we find ourselves, I want to be with you. I'll be happiest spending my life with you."

He placed the ring on her finger, then they kissed fervently, crazily, Logan giving out a loud whoop and lifting her off the ground with the force of his elation. From a distance, from Hoover Tower, the carillon bells began to ring their traditional commencement program. And from an even farther distance, the avocado tree seemed to shake its leaves and resonate with their joy.

**T H E E N D**


End file.
